


A Little Drop of Poison

by random_flores



Category: Legend of the Seeker
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-25
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:44:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/random_flores/pseuds/random_flores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And so it begins, in the darkest hours of the night, in the company of an old man and a killer, Kahlan embarks on the journey to save the life of her dearest friend, and in the process take on the most dangerous gang of outlaws New Austin has ever seen. (in progress)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A LOTS Western AU in a world inspired by the Red Dead Universe. That means guns and cowboys and lots of scoundrels.

**Prologue: By Hook or Crook**

_"I hear you speak and suddenly  
I'm reminded of how the people  
I respected most in my life  
had a problem with authority."_

\--

In the wilderness outside of Armadillo, the stars shine brightly against a black sky. Crickets chirp loudly, sounding free and unafraid; safe under the cover of darkness. 

Some of the locals have said that the night belongs to the devil, but Kahlan Amnell has never believed that. With the darkness comes a quiet that long ago, she was taught to appreciate. Away from the stench of the unpaved roads of town, the air smells crisp and clean. Kahlan takes a moment to suck it in and lets the frontier seep into her lungs with its chilly familiarity.

It steadies her nerves; gives her balance for what she is about to do. 

Cholla Springs, even with its numerous imperfections and constantly shifting landscape, has been her home for a very long time. She is about to leave it, skunking out of town like a common outlaw. 

“This is a mistake,” Zedd whispers in her ear. He says it low, but not low enough. Kahlan stiffens, and casts a gaze across the dirt to a deceptively small blonde standing next to a black horse a few feet away. In the middle of steadying her saddle with strong, quick tugs, if Cara Mason hears Zedd’s comment, she makes no indication of it. “Crossing into Mexican territory with a Mord’Sith? We may as well be delivering Richard’s casket, along with our own.”

The old man speaks doubts that are every bit her own. She does not need to be reminded of them. 

Kahlan exhales, watches as the puff of condensation dissipates into the cold air. “Zedd, I’m not having this argument again.” 

“We can’t trust her, Kahlan.” 

It’s Zedd stating the obvious, and it irritates her all the more. “You don’t think I know that?” she hisses, eyes flashing as her grip tightens against her saddled bag.

“There are options –“ 

“There _are_ no options, Zedd,” she snaps, because it’s true. “There’s not a man within sixty miles of here who’d be willing to go after the Darken Rahl and the Mord’Sith gang, not even for a man like Richard. You know it as well as I do.” Dark eyes look upon her somberly. Zedd has no dispute. She swallows hard, and turns back to her Bay Mare. She shoves hard, pushing at the horse to keep her steady. “I’m the last of my kind, Zedd,” she admits, but her sentimental words do not waver. There’s no time for it here. “And you and Richard are all I’ve known as family. By hook or crook, I’m getting him back, even if it means riding into Mexico with a Mord’Sith bent on vengeance. He’d do the same for me.”

She supposes Zedd sees it, her grim determination, because he expels a heavy, sorrowful breath, like he’s dying, and then gives her a misty-eyed smile that shines in the darkness of the night. 

“You’re right,” he whispers sadly, “The two of you are two peas in a pod.” 

Over the horn of her saddle, she sees Cara Mason dig a boot into the stirrup and haul herself up onto her Gelding in a quick fluid move that speaks of experience and a lifetime of quick escapes. 

She’s a criminal and a killer, and she has no reason to honor her word to Kahlan that she will not run. 

Truthfully, Kahlan half expects it. 

But Cara does not run. She stays, tugging on the reigns and twisting the horse around until both animal and rider are staring at her with ill-disguised impatience. 

“We’re wasting time,” Cara calls out. “Say your good-byes to the Wizard or take him with us, neither makes a difference to me.” 

The reminder of her presence makes Zedd’s old leathered face go sour. “Why does she insist on calling me that?” he grumbles, hand on his holster as if by unconscious habit. “I’m a scientist.” 

Kahlan doesn’t answer. She saves her concentration for the other woman, who stares at her with an expression that could be easily mistaken for boredom. 

Since childhood, Kahlan has had an extraordinary gift – a sixth sense of sorts that allows her to truly read a person, dig deep inside of them and understand their deepest truths. 

It has earned her the nickname of ‘Mother Confessor’ around these parts, because, the Sheriff once bragged, Kahlan could get any criminal to confess to anything. 

But not a Mord’Sith. Not this Mord’Sith. Kahlan has no idea what the striking woman is thinking, and it runs a chill down her spine. 

Zedd lets out a curse, struggling as his own mare steps away from him, nearly tripping as he tries to get his foot in the stirrup. “Hold still, you dang piece of crowbait!” he hollers. 

Kahlan watches, before quietly mounting and settling onto the back of her mare. Zedd continues to struggle, and as her eyes flicker to Cara, she notes the tick of frustration, the look of impatience that flits across Cara’s face. 

“Zedd,” she finds herself saying, as the old man finally settles astride his ornery horse. “You don’t need to come with us.” 

He stares at her, affronted. “I wouldn’t be no kind of a man if I didn’t,” he growls at her. “Two women, traveling alone in these parts? Into the hell that’s Mexico, in the midst of revolution?” 

“And what advantage does traveling with an old crow like you give us, Wizard?” Cara tosses out. “Other than your obvious skills in horsemanship, that is.” 

The glare he gives the other woman is like a blast of frostbite. 

“You and I both know that I can hold my own,” Kahlan interrupts gently, directing his focus towards her. She has a Colt Revolver packed on her hip, a repeater rifle in a satchel against the rigging of the saddle. “And I fear for your safety.” 

His look softens into one of tenderness. “And I for yours,” he admits gently. The smile he gives her is sweet; fatherly. Kahlan’s chest tightens with unshed emotion. 

She holds it in. There is no time for it. “Zedd-“

“Trust me, for an old coot, I’ve got quite a few tricks of my sleeve. A few even a Mord’Sith should take notice of!” he snarls over his shoulder. 

Cara’s look is simple disgust. 

Kahlan reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. “To the border,” she bargains. “And no further.” 

The stranger known as Cara Mason only rolls her eyes, and turns her spurs into her horse’s flanks, pushing into the direction of Rio Bravo and the Mexican Border. 

“Sleep with a gun under your pillow tonight,” Zedd murmurs, and follows. 

And so it begins, in the darkest hours of the night, in the company of an old man and a killer, Kahlan embarks on the journey to save the life of her dearest friend, and in the process take on the most dangerous gang of outlaws New Austin has ever seen. 

She’s a woman, and though she is young and healthy, the West has proven to be a dangerous, unfriendly place. 

Men like Richard Cypher are few and far between, and in this quest, she and this outlaw named Cara Mason have proven to be his only champions. 

Kahlan takes a breath, and steels herself. 

“By hook or by crook,” she breathes, reminding herself of her own dedication, and spurs herself forward into the wild and the unknown. 

_End Prologue_

 

**Part I: Beat the Devil Around the Stump**  
 _“New Austin: the last real outlaw country. Where the old ways still hold true. You do a man wrong, he’ll shoot you for it. You do a man right…well, he still may shoot you for it. But at least you have an idea of what’s right and what’s wrong here.”_

\--

Sometimes at night she dreams of a reality that doesn’t exist. 

Of a world where she wears flowing white robes, and presides over a city with a castle. 

Where magic flows from her fingertips and the world is as wild as this one, but there are no steamboats or trains or telegrams - just forests, dangerous women in leather, men who carry swords and call them truths and sprites that light up a forest. 

As a child, she once told her adopted mother of these dreams. The old woman, with her dark weathered skin and wise brown eyes, only looked at her sagely and replied that not all dreams were fantasy. 

In some world, some other time, some other reality, Kahlan had most assuredly lived in such a place, because there was no reason to believe she hadn’t. 

“The spirit of the Earth is strong with you, Child,” she told her, in her native tongue. “Do not forsake her instinct within you – she will guide you to greatness.” 

In the wilds of New Austin, Kahlan Amnell has never forgotten the teachings of the Old Mother. Even as the world changes around her, she remembers her dreams, and she clings to her instincts. 

\--

The day the worst of it starts, the town of Armadillo is hot and dry. There is no wind to sweep the stench of horse manure away from the muddy dirty streets, and therefore, Kahlan has no motivation to wander outside of Zedd’s store. 

Kahlan has no real love for town life, or Armadillo’s version of it. A part of her longs for the freedom of the wilderness. Another part of her recognizes this dark and dingy place as her home, if only through the kindness of Zedd and Richard. 

“It’s quiet today,” she offers to the old man, who grunts from his place behind her, hunched over a dusty wooden table. He wears round goggles, and his face is coated with ash, in the midst of yet another experiment. “There hasn’t been a customer yet, not even for cartridges.” 

“Bad for business,” he answers gruffly, “But good for my health. Ever since Richard put on that damned Deputy’s star I’ve been sleeping with one eye open.”

In all honesty, it surprises both Kahlan and Richard that Zedd is so against Richard being deputized. Though most townfolk tend to take pride in the lawlessness of New Austin, Zedd has raised his nephew to be an idealistic sort of man, who believes in the greater good. 

That kind of man cannot stand by and watch while women are beaten and raped by men who are in the grip of the devil called Whiskey, while hard working settlers endure famine and dry dirt to carve a life for themselves, only to lose their life’s work when the bank is robbed by the bandits who find it too easy to take advantage. 

In truth, if Kahlan were not a woman, she believes she would have followed Richard straight into the Marshall’s office, and accepted a badge of her own. 

“Richard can’t help being who he is,” she says quietly. “And if the rumors are true about Darken Rahl and his gang-“ 

Something sparks on the table, and Zedd jumps back, swearing silently. “God-Damn Darken Rahl and those God-Damn rumors,” he spits. “The man is damn evil and that’s the damned truth, but that kind of evil is like a weed out here. You pluck him out and ten more will grow in his place.” 

The very idea is enough to cause a shudder of revulsion. Kahlan can imagine few men in the world capable of the heinous crimes that Darken Rahl and his gang stand accused of. Even worse is the almost mythical status of his whores, so dedicated to him they carry their own name – the Mord’Sith. 

“This town could use more men like Richard,” she reasons. “He inspires the men around him to act against people like him.” 

Zedd’s head lifts, and he eyes with a look that seems at once charmed and knowing. “Not just the men, it would seem.” She is saved from responding when another spark spits from his table. This time, Zedd’s swearing is almost French. “Those Indians of yours ever teach you about electricity?” 

With a bemused smile, she shakes her head. “The Sisters of the Light believed the true elements existed in the spirits of all living things.”

“And they call _me_ a wizard,” he grumbles. Zedd often speaks of bringing innovation of to the Old West, ridding the streets of manure and disease. It’s city-talk, and most of the inhabitants of Armadillo almost seem to resent him for it. The nickname he so despises comes from his fascination of electricity and the constant inventions that come out of the little room behind the Gunsmith’s shop. “There’s been no word of our do-gooder, then?” 

Kahlan shifts against the counter to glance at the closed door. She hears only the usual noise of horses trotting and men calling out to each other. Richard’s voice is not among them. “Not since he left this morning. I can check the Marshall’s office.” 

Zedd’s fingers flick at her, dismissing the notion. “He’ll turn up, he always does. Do me a favor and pick up the order from the grocer, will you? May as well get some chores done. I’ve got a hunch no one’s gonna be buying a gun today, and if they do come in, it’ll be just to take a look at your pretty face.” 

It’s an exaggerated compliment. Though Kahlan has been called beautiful on more than one occasion, she is well aware of her spinster status at the old age of twenty-six. 

“Rather your cooky old inventions, Zedd,” she offers, but obeys, rounding the counter and heading for the door. 

“Please!” Zedd squeaks from the table. “You could have yourself a husband tomorrow if you fancied one, and you know it!” 

It’s the start of a tiresome conversation they’ve had at least a hundred times before, and though the smell of the streets hits her like a slap in the face, Kahlan hurries out and slams the door shut hard behind her. 

It’s best to cut off such a conversation before it even starts. 

\--

“Miss Amnell.” Mr. Roderick, the owner of the general store, pulls together her parcel and gives her a curiously nosey look. “There’s a rumor that Darken Rahl’s been spotted in New Austin.”

The bluntness of the statement startles her, as does the questioning glance he sends in her direction, as if he’s expecting confirmation. 

“The reputation of a man like Darken’s Rahl’s feeds on such rumors, Mr. Roderick,” she answers calmly. “I wouldn’t take them seriously.” 

The grunt he offers in response is dismissive. “I would mention it to your beau, just as well. Can’t be too careful nowadays.” 

Irritation fills her before she can quite help it, and it urges a less than polite response. “Deputy Cypher isn’t my beau, Mr. Roderick,” she snips. “I would be most appreciative if you stopped saying so.” 

The paper wrapped parcel drops on the counter, displaying a small cloud of dust that gets into Kahlan’s nose and makes her want to sneeze.

“You best be careful, Miss Amnell.” Mr. Roderick leans against the counter, voice grave with concern. “And hook that man while you can. There are plenty of younger gals in this town who’ve taken a shine to the good Deputy, and would be happy to do his cookin’ and cleaning and to bear that man some fine children.” 

Kahlan has never doubted that. Richard Cypher was raised in Blackwater, and the city-dwelling shows in his linen waist coast and shiny black boots. He’s a handsome man who takes care in his appearance, a rarity in these parts. With his boyish enthusiasm and his genuine kindness, he’s considered to be quite the catch, especially in an outpost town like Armadillo. 

Some woman, perhaps a young lass who wants only a stable home and a decent town life, will make him a fine wife, to mend his socks and cook his meals without fear of being beaten. 

But that someone will not be Kahlan. It will never be Kahlan. 

She pastes on an easy smile. “Then I suppose I may have to take my chances, Mr. Roderick.” _It’s only concern_ , she tells herself, when Mr. Roderick’s eyes narrow with obvious pity. 

“You should be more grateful, Ms. Amnell.” It’s an authoritative tone Mr. Roderick employs, and all too familiar for her taste. “You’re a lucky girl. Not many folks out here would have taken in a random stranger, and a girl raised by savages, at that.” 

Her knuckles tighten around her parcel, and Kahlan lifts her chin even as her fist clenches. 

Any response she could have made is stolen from her when the door to the general store bursts open behind her, a loud clap of wood that startles her into nearly dropping her parcel. 

“Miss Amnell!” 

Whirling, she discovers the disheveled face of a baby-faced deputy with ginger hair and a sweaty brow. “Deputy Flynn!” 

A quick nod is all he gives her for pleasantry. “The Marshall sent me,” he says, voice raspy and urgent. “Said he needed you right away.” 

The urgent tone, the way he stares at her with such panicked worry, sends a chill down her spine. “Is Deputy Cypher all right?” 

“Yes, ma’am, he’s fine,” he rasps, and Kahlan takes a moment to close her eyes and breathe her sigh of relief. It does not last. “We need you right away, Miss! We’ve got ourselves one of them Mord’Sith whores!” 

\--

The Marshall of Armadillo has a solid body and a full white beard. He is a good man, but hardened by frontier life. There is a scar on his cheek and rough calluses on his hands. The badge on his chest seems to weigh on him like an anchor. 

As Kahlan enters, he rises to his feet by pushing his palms against his knees, grimacing against the movement. 

“Miss Amnell, Lord knows I hate to bring a woman into this,” he says, removing his hat. “But I’ll be damned if anyone in this town can read a person better than you.” Kahlan acknowledges him with a nod, but her focus already veers to the cells directly behind him. 

It’s Richard she sees first. He stands by the rusty metal bars and gives her a grim, familiar nod. 

“Kahlan,” he says, too absorbed in the current predicament to care about formality. Shifting away from the cell, he reveals a woman slumped on the lumpy, threadbare mattress made of hay that lies on the dusty floor of the jail cell. 

She’s wearing men’s pants and a dirty tank top underneath a black vest. Blonde hair the color of the sun-bleached straw spreads against the pillow, but those details seem almost invisible compared to the bruise going purple on the side of the woman’s mouth, the split lip cracked and basted with blood. 

“She’s been beaten,” she breathes, and isn’t aware she’s taken a step towards the cell until Richard grabs hold of her shoulder, keeping her in place. “Richard, she needs a doctor.” 

“She’s not getting a doctor,” the Marshall snaps. “She ain’t getting so much as a sip of water until we figure out who she is and how the hell a Mord’Sith landed in our lap like a damn Christmas present.” 

It’s a callous statement, but Kahlan’s heart stutters at the very idea. That this woman could be a Mord’Sith, a group of women so dangerous they’re considered consorts of the devil himself, seems almost unfathomable. 

Not when she looks so… weak. 

“How can you be sure she’s a Mord’Sith?” she whispers. She feels the solid reassurance of Richard as he shifts against her, points her in the direction of the empty cell beside them both. 

Dark red leather chaps are strung over the chair. Though they’re caked dirty with mud and blood, they’re every bit the signature color of Darken Rahl’s gang. 

Her blood runs cold. 

“Cypher found her,” the Marshall comments, sounding less than thrilled about the prospect. “Half-beaten and damn near dead, barely clinging to her horse just outside town. Should have left her there to die, son.”

“Marshall!” Richard snaps. “There’s a lady present.” 

“Well, I’m sorry, Ma’am! You know as well as I do that the minute someone sees them chaps and figures out they’re for real, there’s either gonna be a lynching or a panic, or this place is gonna turn into a freak show.” 

They are words she doesn’t want to hear, but as she glances at Richard, she understands the truth of them. 

If this is truly a Mord’Sith in this cell, the unusually peaceful last few weeks that Armadillo has enjoyed has come to an abrupt end. 

“I would never leave a woman that needs help, Marshall,” Richard says, voice strong and clear and so very _Richard_. “Not even Darken Rahl’s whore.” 

“Son, with that mouth, you shoulda been a politician, not a lawman.” The Marshall arches his brow at him in exasperation, and shakes his head, turning to Kahlan. “At first light I’m putting her in a coach and sending her to them Federal fellas in Blackwater, but before she goes, we need some answers. That’s where you come in, Miss Amnell.” 

Kahlan absorbs the words, before her gaze once again moves to the unconscious woman in the jail cell. 

It feels oddly like she’s been placed in front of an oncoming tornado, and been told to stop it in it’s tracks. 

\--

Richard, as always, is a gentleman. He’s pumped water from the well, and it’s sitting beside him on the bench outside the Marshall’s office, ready and waiting for the moment the Marshall will allow him to give aid to the Mord’Sith. 

Kahlan takes in his earnest, worried expression – the way the sweat trickles on his brow and he distractedly brushes at it with his sleeve, before placing his hat back on top of his head. 

“Regardless of who she is, the Marshall should at least let me clean her wounds before she dies of infection.” 

She feels an ache within her. It battles with her affection, because it’s in these instances that she feels older and wiser than Richard could ever hope to be. 

She takes a seat on the bench beside him. “Richard,” she begins gently. “Maybe the Marshall has a point.” 

The look his gives her is full of surprise and disappointment. “Kahlan.” 

“She’s a Mord’Sith,” she snaps, and is unable to keep the disgust out of her tone. “You and I both know what that means. She’s one of Darken Rahl’s. She’s a killer.” 

“Kahlan.” 

“There are far too few good men in this world to care about the welfare of the bad.” 

Richard’s palms press together. His eyes darken. “With that mentality we’re not any better than them, Kahlan, and you know that.” 

Perhaps. Perhaps Kahlan isn’t any better than a Mord’Sith whore, but in her memory stills lives the slaughter of her sisters, of the tribe she once called family, and the scarring runs deep. 

She says nothing. 

“She may be a killer. She may not be. She was beaten and left for dead, Kahlan, by her own gang. There has to be a reason for it.” 

He says it so fervently, Kahlan can’t help but be taken aback. “You act as if you know her.”

Richard’s brow furrow. His hands flex. “You will talk to her, won’t you, Kahlan?” 

His brown eyes focus on hers with such pleading, it strikes her breathless. “Richard,” she begins with mounting dread. “What is it?“ 

He stares intensely, as if replaying the memory in his head. “When I found her, half dead barely conscious, she looked at me. It was the way she looked at me, Kahlan. Like she knew me. And then...” 

He fades off, deep in thought. Kahlan finds herself with no patience. “And then what, Richard?” 

Chapped lips purse, before dark eyes meet hers, worry flickering within them. “She said she was sorry.” 

\- End Chapter


	2. Chapter Two: Up the Spout

_“I always dreamed of documenting the final days of the West. The romance, the honor, the nobility! But it turns out, it’s just people killing each other!”_

\--

“Word’s getting around town,” the Marshall says, heavy boots creaking on the decayed wood of the office. “There’s talk of a lynching.” 

“Marshall, you can’t let that happen.” Richard, earnest and determined, steps forward beside Kahlan. A frown wrinkles his handsome features; tension radiates off of him like heat. 

“Now calm down, son.” The Marshall betrays his affection for Richard with a small smile, before his standard stern expression returns “There ain’t been no lynching on my watch and there ain’t gonna be. I’m just saying, the town’s getting riled up. You and I both know that you don’t see just one Mord’Sith without the whole pack coming in right behind ‘em.” 

It’s a terrifying prospect that invites an image of gunfire, death and carnage. 

There’s a sick feeling in the pit of Kahlan’s stomach that threatens to sink into actual nausea. “You’re saying you think Darken Rahl’s not far behind.” 

Richard expels a loud breath from his nostrils. She feels a faint touch against her side, meant to be reassurance. 

The Marshall stares at her, and he must remember her circumstances, because his face softens. “Now Miss Kahlan, I ain’t saying nothing of the sort,” he answers gently. “But sadly you ain’t the only one coming up with those conclusions.” 

All eyes drift back to the woman, who sleeps like the dead. 

“Cypher, take Flynn and do a sweep of the town,” the Marshall decides finally. “Calm the people down. Let ‘em see your guns and shut ‘em down before they get any ideas and start posse-ying up. And tell that Wizard Uncle of yours to lock up those weapons of his. I don’t want him selling a damn thing today without my say so. Meanwhile I’ll head down to the train station, and see if them fellas from Blackwater answered my telegram.” 

The hesitation on Richard’s face is palpable, and it’s for that reason, and that reason alone that Kahlan reaches for his arm and squeezes it reassuringly. “Be careful.” 

His dark eyes meet hers gratefully. “You too” he whispers, and suddenly launches forward to press a closed mouth kiss against her cheek. The scruff of his beard scratches at her skin, and she barely has a chance to register it before she sees him slip his hat on his head and head out into the bright sunlight. 

It almost swallows him whole. 

“It’s a funny thing.” Now standing at the cell, the Marshall’s gray eyes focus thoughtfully. He nods to the unconscious Mord’Sith. “Any other circumstance, I’d be thinking that this is the prettiest damn whore I’ve ever seen.” His shoulders dip, head shaking in resignation. “Now… she just looks like a tub full of trouble.” 

Stepping back, he heads for his desk and pulls out a shiny Colt revolver. “Just in case,” he says apologetically as he holds it in her direction. Kahlan’s eyes flit from the weapon to his face. “Lord knows I hate to involve a woman in these matters, but no one knows the difference between a pile of shit and the real deal better than you. Pardon the language, Miss.” 

His determination to treat her as an equal is the very reason Kahlan suspects she’s always had a great deal of affection for the Marshall. With a grim, resigned smile, Kahlan takes the Colt, handling it carefully. “I’ll take it as a compliment.” 

“You go ahead and do that.” Fitting his hat over his head, the Marshall stomps the dirt off his boots. 

Kahlan runs her fingers over the pistol; tests the weight of it. It’s loaded. 

The realization is a sobering one. “Marshall.” He pauses, glancing back in her direction. “Suppose this is a trap?” she asks. “And Darken Rahl is coming?” 

He doesn’t respond right away. When he does, he simply says, “Then we’re gonna all be in a helluva lot of trouble.” 

“Richard thinks she’s just a girl caught up in a wrong situation.” 

“And what do you think, Miss Kahlan?” 

What doesn’t she think? Kahlan’s thoughts are racing through with the speed of a racing stallion. They gain strength from her experience. 

She shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know what I think,” she admits. “A part of me wants to believe that he’s right. That this woman is just a victim of bad circumstance and that the rumors of the Mord’Sith are just exaggerated fables… but the rest of me…” 

“-knows the boy’s too soft for his own good.” The Marshall shakes his head in morose agreement. “Cypher’s got a good heart but you and I both know he’s as naïve as a calf. Richard Cypher and his uncle have developed quite the reputation for taking in strays. Though this last time, I’d say it worked in our favor.” The smile of thanks she gives him is small, but grateful. “I guess that’s what you have to find out, Miss Amnell. We’re counting on you,” he adds, before he ducks out the door. 

\-- 

In reality, it is only Kahlan who was taken in, and even then, the circumstances of her ‘adoption’ had been extreme. Kahlan is not unlucky enough to forget what they were, and sometimes she does force herself to think of them. Though Kahlan’s skin is no darker than most of the townfolk and much lighter than many of the cowboys that roam through these parts, her upbringing brands her as the child of savages. 

It is a stigma she bears with pride. Through Western expansion and downright cruelty, it has come to pass that in this world, Kahlan is the last of her kind. 

For that reason, and sometimes, she thinks, for that reason alone, does Kahlan resist any and all attempts to ‘tame’ her. In her weakest moments, she often contemplates upon her happiness, and it is then that she admits to herself that marriage to Richard Cypher would not be unbearable. 

But she was raised in the tradition of the Sisters of the Light, and swore long ago to honor their memory with a lasting legacy. 

Such steadfast devotion to her past has left it a lonely future, but at least in this, she considers herself luckier than most. 

Fate has given her Richard and Zedd. They are all the family she needs now. And she will protect them in ways she was unable to protect her sisters. 

The Marshall is right. Richard is in many ways naïve to the ways of the world. And Zedd… 

Zedd sees it through his dust covered glasses, clouded with the miracle of science. 

It is rapidly becoming night. 

Alone in the dark, dusty office that serves as the Marshall’s jail cell, in a place that’s usually reserved for Tommy, the town drunk, is a woman who may as well represent a maelstrom. 

Kahlan holds a match box. She pries a match from the block, snapping it off like a tooth from a comb. With a smart, quick jerk against a piece of folded sandpaper, the match ignites. 

The smell of the burning wood is almost as intoxicating as the beauty of the flame itself, and it is what Kahlan chooses to focus on. 

She lights a candle and sets it beside her, illuminating her tiny space and only part of the cell. 

The flame on the match burns down, threatening to blister her calloused fingertips. Still, Kahlan takes her time in blowing it out. The sensation centers her, slows her heartbeat and steadies her breath. 

It prepares her for what is to come. 

Matter-of-factly, Kalhan slams the colt revolver against a cowbell kept in the Marshall’s office. A loud bang rings painfully close to her ears, but the cowbell serves its purpose. Jolted awake, the woman in the cell opens her eyes. 

It should not be a surprise that beneath the dirt, the swelling and the dried blood are the strong features of a beautiful woman. 

In that, she certainly lives up to a reputation of a Mord’Sith. 

It’s always fascinating, to see a person comes to their senses. How awareness drifts into one is quite unique. Some panic. Some merely close their eyes and pray their circumstances away. Others are like children, begging for answers and direction. 

This Mord’Sith does none of those things. Instead, colored cat eyes flutter and then focus almost immediately on Kahlan. The gaze is hooded, but the expression reveals nothing at all. 

Slowly, with muscles that must be stiff and a typical disorientation, the woman plants her palms against the rough wooden floorboards and pushes herself to her knees. She skids back, away from the meager light from Kahlan’s candle, to just beyond its reach, in the farthest corner of the jail cell. 

She removes Kahlan’s advantage. From here, she can see only shadowed features and the dirty tip of a boot. The woman adopts a slouch that is too casual for the current circumstances. Kahlan must strain to see as fingers press against a bruised cheek, inspecting the damage before the same hand is lowered and rested on her knee. 

Suddenly aware of her pounding heart, Kahlan sucks in a needed breath and takes action. She shifts forward and reaches for Richard’s bucket of water. 

Her hand closes around a ladle and scoops, pushing water through the bars and offering it to the woman. 

Liquid drips on the floor from the spoon but the Mord’Sith makes no move to take the ladle from her. 

After a moment, Kahlan retracts the offering. “Suit yourself,” she says, and deliberately shifts the Colt revolver off her lap and into the holster she’s fitted against her waist. 

The light from the flickering candle jumps with the flame. There is more shadow than light. 

Years of experience have given leave for Kahlan to trust in her instincts. Usually, within a minute, Kahlan can judge whether a man is being truthful or lying, whether they are guilty or innocent. 

This is perhaps the only time in her life when such senses have failed her. 

She can see nothing at all. 

So many rumors surround the Mord’Sith, and Kahlan has largely suspected that for the most part, they are exaggerated. She is well aware the power of words. A smart man can spin a tall tale to create more fear than any single act of violence. 

But this Mord’Sith whore, the first she’s seen, is flesh and blood, and yet… 

Kahlan is sure that she must be thirsty, starved for water. She must be in pain, if the swelling on her face is any indication. 

But she says nothing. She only waits, seated in that dark corner of the cell, quietly regarding her. 

Kahlan can wait no longer. 

“My name is Kahlan Amnell,” she says. “The Marshall has asked that I speak with you.” 

Her words drift into silence. For a moment, Kahlan thinks perhaps she is being ignored, when an unexpected chortle fills the air. “The Mother Confessor?” The raspy drawl is surprisingly loud given the state of the woman who speaks the words. “He brought in the Mother Confessor?” 

It’s a startling response. “It appears my reputation precedes me,” she begins calmly. “Is that a problem?” 

“On the contrary, I’m flattered. Do your worst, Confessor.”

Though Kahlan can only see the outline of the Mord’Sith’s features, she would be a fool not to recognize a deliberate taunting, 

At this moment, in these circumstances, staring at the dark face of a woman who was almost certainly a killer, Kahlan is in no mood to become a plaything. 

“Do you think me incapable?” she asks gruffly. “To ask me to come and speak to you was an act of kindness and mercy. It can be argued that you, as Darken Rahl’s whore, deserve much less.” 

She has a bite in her tone. It must surprise the woman, because there is no sauce in her voice when she responds slowly, “Then it appears _my_ reputation has preceded _me_.” 

“A reputation is only as good or bad as a person’s actions,” she admits. “But a vague apology given to a deputy just before one lapses into unconsciousness does little to combat the stigma and burgundy chaps of a Mord’Sith whore.” 

She hears an exhalation, before the hand palmed the other woman’s knee goes once again to the bruised and battered face. 

“And so they bring a woman to interrogate such a dangerous criminal?” The Mord’Sith clucks her tongue in a mock judgment. “Because surely, a woman beaten by her own gang and left for dead on the side of a road is truly a just cause for capital punishment.” 

The candlelight flickers, and Kahlan can resist no longer. Rising, she pries another stick from the matchbox and takes the lantern from the Marshall’s desk. After a moment, the lantern is lit and the woman’s features are no longer hidden from her. 

Observant green eyes meet hers. 

Kahlan sees no fear. 

In return, Kahlan gives her a grudging respect. “That is not for me to decide,” she allows. Settling back in her chair, she notes the dirty jeans, the broken fingers nails. “I’ve only asked to speak to you and to attempt to understand what brought you to this place.” 

Once again, Kahlan reaches for the wooden ladle. Once again, she offers the Mord’Sith the water. 

Once again, the Mord’Sith simply stares, eyes flitting from the dripping spoon back to Kahlan’s passive face. 

“No?” she asks. “Fine.” 

She’s in the midst of dropping the ladle back in the bucket when the woman speaks. 

“I wasn’t brought to this place by my own volition. I was left. Dropped on your doorstep like a damned Christmas present.” 

The force with which the ladle hits the bucket splashes water over the edges and soaks Kahlan’s dress at her knee. 

She barely feels it. 

“By who?” 

Those green eyes narrow, eye her like she’s stupid. “Who do you think?” 

The word drifts into her mentality like a whisper. “What is Darken Rahl doing in these parts?” she breathes. 

“Whatever he damn well pleases.” 

The casual comment is maddening. Kahlan has no patience for ambivalence. “Things would go substantially better for you, if you were just a little less vague.” 

The Mord’Sith’s face lifts. “Is that meant to be a threat?” the woman responds, a trace of disbelief in her tone. “I can assure you, Confessor, there is nothing you or this town or your Marshall can do to me that hasn’t already been done.”

The scab on the Mord’Sith’s lip has opened, and Kahlan can make out the dark shimmer of blood. Though the light is low, the swollen bruise on the woman’s cheek is clearly going purple. 

If this the evidence Kahlan can see, she can only imagine what lies beneath. 

This is not a typical beaten whore, timid and afraid of being beaten again. The look she receives is defiant, daring her to comment on her pathetic state. 

“I’ll take that water now,” she hears. After a moment, Kahlan obliges, dipping the ladle and waiting as the Mord’Sith stiffly pushes to her feet and moves to the front of the cell. 

Now, she only a foot away. Kahlan can take in the details. How she is shorter than her, but lean and strong. Her features are flushed – color seems to permanently stain her cheeks. 

Even now, Kahlan finds herself at a loss. She just cannot read her.

The Mord’Sith’s eyes never leave Kahlan’s as she takes the ladle from her hands and swallows the cold well water. Dark lids flutter in appreciation for the refreshment. 

“What’s your name?” Kahlan finally finds herself asking. The woman pauses, and lowers the ladle. Fingers brush as Kahlan reaches to take it back. The contact is startling. “I’m going to find out eventually,” she adds after a moment. “And quite honestly, it would make sense to know it. It’s better for this town if you’re a person with a name instead of an unnamed Mord’Sith.” 

“Cara,” she says, after a moment. “Mason.” 

Cara. Outside of the cell, someone shouts. It sounds tinny and far away. Kahlan finds herself expelling breath, unaware she was even holding it until that very moment. 

To know her name is both a relief and an anxiety. 

“Where’s Richard Cypher?” The ladle drops out of her hand and back into the bucket, as her heart jumps into her throat, nearly choking her. 

Cara’s brow arches. Fingers curl around the iron bars of her cell, leaning ever closer to Kahlan. 

“How do you know Richard?” she asks. 

The smirk that floats on the swollen lip is cold; calculating. “The same way I know you, Confessor,” she responds. “The same way I know about his Wizard Uncle. If Darken Rahl wishes to know something, then it’s Mord’Sith who knows it first.” 

She’s stunned. Legitimately stunned at how quickly this conversation has turned. The dread that envelops her comes over her so quickly that for one moment, she is paralyzed. 

Then she feels it. Fingers rub against her hip, right at her holster. 

Small, feminine fingers reaching for the Colt revolver. 

White hot rage suddenly boils inside of her, burning her cheeks and taking her over. Kahlan’s hand shoots out and wraps around Cara’s throat, flexing fingers around a delicate throat, slamming the other woman hard against unforgiving iron bars.

She sees the eyes widen, the pupils dilate. 

Surprised then. Good. 

As Cara’s fingers abandon her gun to wrap around Kahlan’s forearms, Kahlan’s grip only tightens, choking the very life out of her. 

“Listen to me very carefully, Cara Mason,” she whispers, hearing the struggle for breath. “Do not mistake my kindness for weakness. For all the pain you may or may not have suffered, believe me when I say that I have killed in my lifetime and will not hesitate to do so again if it involves protecting my family.” 

She means only to intimidate, to emerge on the right side of this power struggle. To beat Cara Mason at her own game. 

But as her fingers tighten against the Mord’Sith’s throat, a sudden, blinding flash of a vision bores into her with the force of a prairie wind storm. 

She’s flooded. Images burn into her consciousness, as if they are memories rushing to the surface. Moments in a lifetime that never existed, where her eyes grow black with rage and the woman she’s choking wears leather from head to toe. Green eyes that were unfamiliar to her now seem intimate, as over and over, she sees the face of Cara Mason beside her, against her… inside her. 

So vivid is the flash –lips slanting over hers, leather sliding against her bare skin, and Cara’s name bursting from her lips as fingers dig deep inside her as they shift against a forest floor-

It’s too much. 

With a shuddering breath, Kahlan tears her fingers back, blasted back into the present. Paralyzed, she numbly watches as this Cara Mason loses her strength to stand. She slumps to the dirty floor of the cage and inhales deeply, gasping for breath like a gutted fish.

In this moment where she’s in between worlds, Kahlan feels herself reach for the bars, Cara’s name aching to be released from her lips, lost in regret. 

But there is no forest. There is no leather or white orbs and Kahlan’s fingers do not pulse with whatever magic she swears she possessed in such visions. She keeps her fingers to herself and steps away from the bars, overwhelmed and struggling for some sense of reassurance that this is her reality. 

“What does Darken Rahl want with Richard?” Her voice shakes, breathless. 

The door bursts open, bringing with it a gust of wind that blows the candle out. Kahlan whirls, just in time to see a flash of fire - the muzzle of a gun blasting a bullet in her direction. 

Just then, a sharp pain that feels like a kick hits her leg from behind. Her knees buckle with the force of it, and as she drops, the heat of a bullet slashes past her, whispering against her ear like a kiss before it pings loudly against the iron bars of the cell, snapping with a thud into the brick wall. 

She’s blind. Crumpled on the floor, Kahlan can only hear the creak of a floorboard as a boot steps deeper into the office. 

The light from the lantern flickers, but the dark leather chaps that the female intruder wears are easy to make out. 

Kahlan recognizes her immediately as a Mord’Sith. 

She does not wait for her to fire again. Legs shooting out, Kahlan kicks her feet out from under her. The gun blasts again, and the force and sheer noise cause her head to pound and her ears to ring, but still Kahlan struggles, fisting her hand and slamming it hard across the woman’s face. 

She’s plowed into fiercely, rammed into the iron bars, head cracking against the metal. 

A blow snaps against her temple, dizzying her, and still, she manages a twist of her hips, elbow slamming into the face of the woman. 

She struggles for her very life, and yet, she makes a crucial mistake. 

She takes her eyes off Cara, and suddenly, too late, she remembers her, when she feels hands at her hips and the gun slipping free. 

“Cara,” she hears, a voice of confidence and happiness, because now the Mord’Sith has her, arms pinned behind her, ready and waiting to be executed by the Mord’Sith in the cell, with her own gun cocked and aimed straight at her. “Do it.” 

“Hello, Triana,” Cara says, and then cocks the Colt and fires. 

Kahlan recoils on instinct. Warm liquid slaps her in the face, and suddenly the woman behind her releases her grip. 

Kahlan hears a thud. Dust flies into her nose, causing her to nearly choke on it. 

She nearly slips on seeping blood. 

For a moment, nothing makes sense. Kahlan can only take in the image – a woman with her head nearly blown off, dead and crumpled on the floor. 

Kahlan’s head jerks back to the cell, eyes wide and disbelieving. “You saved my life,” she realizes.

Still breathing heavily, Cara holds on to her pistol. The hammer is once again cocked. “Nice of you to notice,” she snaps back. “Are we through then, stating the obvious?” Kahlan is too stunned to say a word. “Now, are you going to be a good girl and repay the favor by opening the cell, or should I have let Trianna do us both in?” 

“God-Dammit-“ A blast, another gunshot, makes Kahlan jump, and she whirls, as the hulking form of the Marshall stands in the doorway, shotgun aimed straight for the cell. “God-damn whore-“ 

“Marshall,” she breathes. “No.” She can only blame instinct as she steps between them. “It’s not what it looks like.” 

He looks at her as if she’s lost her mind. “Miss Amnell, get out the way- this is all her damn fault-“ 

She whirls, stares wildly at the woman in the cell. “Cara, give me the gun.”

“Are you insane?” she sneers.

“GIVE it to me,” she demands. “You saved my life, now let me repay that debt.” 

A battle wages in those green eyes, and again, Kahlan finds herself shaken by the visions, because that haunted look on an otherwise steely face seems at once familiar and … intimate and yet Kahlan has absolutely no… 

The gun wavers and without hesitation, Kahlan reaches through the bars and pulls it from Cara’s fingers. 

“What the hell is wrong with you, girl?” the Marshall growls. But the shotgun lowers. He’s out of breath, sweaty. A grimace stains his features. “Don’t know what’s happened?” 

“What’s happened?” she begs to know. Her heart won’t stop racing, and her pulse pumps so loud she can hear it in her ears, along with the tinny ring that lingers from the blast of bullets. 

The Marshall shoves a boot against the dead Mord’Sith on the floor, still pooling blood into creaks and holes. “The Mord’Sith came. They shot Flynn and took Richard.” 

 

_End Chapter_


	3. Chapter Three: Woke Up the Wrong Passenger

**Chapter Three: Woke up the Wrong Passenger**   
_“Some trees flourish, others die. Some cattle grow strong, others are taken by wolves. Some men are born rich enough and dumb enough to enjoy their lives. Ain’t nothing fair. You know that.”_

\--

There is no time to process such terrible news. Kahlan finds herself rooted to the floor, shaking helplessly as the Marshall circles around her and takes in the scene before him. 

“What the hell happened?!” he snaps. “Are you hurt?” 

Kahlan can still taste the blood of another woman in her mouth, and yet somehow she’s forgotten about the splatter on her face until Zedd himself bursts through the door. 

“Kahlan!” he screeches, eyes so wild he searches the room without really seeing it. When he finally sets his sights on her, what little color exists on his face drains completely. He rushes to her and places calloused, rough palms on her cheek. “What happened?” 

His sand papery touch brings lucidity with it, and it is then that Kahlan is allowed to truly understand what has just happened outside these four walls. 

Any relief she may have felt at surviving the Mord’Sith’s attack flies away. In its place comes pure horror that sinks deep within her, flaying her. 

“I’m fine,” she breathes immediately, impatient as she pulls his hands away from her face. “It’s not my blood. Zedd, what’s happened?” 

Zedd breathes with his mouth open, gaze darting over the dead Mord’Sith, and the blood pooling on the floor. 

“Zedd!” 

Finally, he seems to shake out of it. He sees her again, pats once more at her face, and then exhales quickly. “Richard. They came and they took Richard. Fled with him-“ 

“-Fucking came down and attacked him and Flynn just outta town like the damn Reckoning!” the Marshal spit. He yanks open a drawer, and pulls from it another rifle, slinging it over his shoulder as he gathers a handful of shells with his big broad palm. “Shot up half the stocks, got Flynn right in the chest and dragged Richard away like a damn sow.” 

“Christ,” she breathes. “Is Flynn-“ 

“The Doctor’s looking at him,” Zedd whispers, trying desperately to sound soothing despite the panic that shakes his voice. “No one’s sure.” 

In her cell, Cara Mason stands quietly. She is so still she appears to be almost a statue, and in the chaos, she is all but forgotten. 

But Kahlan does not forget. Unable to help herself, she looks at her. 

In the eyes of a Mord’Sith, there is no answer. 

Kahlan’s blood runs cold. 

“Kahlan.” Pressure against her shoulder re-alerts her to Zedd, who pushes a package in her hand. “Take this. Just in case.” 

What he hands her, she soon realizes, is one of his many inventions – a pouch filled with a volatile powder derived from the potent liquid of local chilis. A pepper bomb, he once called it. 

“Zedd-“ 

Already, he’s let her go, following the Marshall out of the office and into the streets of Armadillo. 

The peace that had existed that morning has faded into some sort of desperate chaos. Horses clomp hooves against the muddy dirt, and sitting astride them are the men she recognizes as the baker, the butcher, the telegram operator. 

They stare at her, horrified expressions identical on every face. 

“We’ve formed a posse,” he explains hurriedly. “To go after Richard. But in case they come back – use that-” 

He struggles with his horse, and already, Kahlan feels left behind – helpless. 

“If you’re going, Zedd, then so am I!” she demands. 

“The hell you are.” It’s the Marshall who intrudes. He digs a foot into the stirrup of his mare and hauls himself up. “Miss Kahlan, this ain’t been done before, but it’s being done now.” A piece of metal is flung into the dirt at Kahlan’s feet. In the moonlight, the tin of a deputy badge glimmers. “You’re hereby debutized. You’re staying here and you’re keeping an eye on that whore.” 

As if sensing the anxiety, the horse the Marshall rides bucks and whinnies an excited shriek. The Marshall jerks on the reigns and hollers. 

“We’ll get him back,” Zedd promises. “Take care, Kahlan!” 

There is a flurry of dust, the noise of horses being pushed into gallop, and then they are gone, one right after the other, headed south out of town into the desert wilderness. 

Weakened, Kahlan reaches down and plucks the tin badge out of the dirt. 

It looks rusted. When Kahlan wipes at the metal with her thumb, she discovers that the rust has smeared. 

It’s then that she realizes the badge is coated with blood. 

\--

The water Richard collected out of kindness, Kahlan now uses to wash the blood from her face. She has no mirror and so she works blindly. When she has cleaned herself as best she can, she overturns the water and with the old broom she finds in the corner near the desk, she mops at the floor. 

Like Cara Mason, the dead Mord’Sith has a beautiful face. The bowler hat she was wearing when she intruded has toppled its way near Cara’s cell, and Kahlan discovers that Cara has taken ownership of it, fitting it over her head and tipping it over her brow as she settles on the dirty mattress. 

That is the extent of Cara’s ‘grief’ for whatever this woman was to her. 

Kahlan can do nothing more than wrap the dead woman in a dirty sheet and drag her into the cell that adjoins Cara’s. 

It makes for a grim, make-shift Morgue. 

The night has grown quiet. In the wake of the posse leaving, the town has hidden behind closed doors, flushing out lanterns and blowing out matches. 

For once, the town is as dark as the night itself. To Kahlan, who has experienced her share of tornadoes, it feels like an eye of the storm. Too thick. Too stifled. Devastation simply biding its time. 

Kahlan feels utterly alone, and she finds herself on the verge of panic, assaulted with thoughts of what has transpired. She sees the image of a beaten and bloodied Richard, fighting with every fiber of his being, only to be slung on the back of a saddle and carried away like a Sabine woman. 

Kahlan has lost too much; she has lost everything. And now, a few short years later, again she is on the brink of that particular misfortune. 

Kahlan checks her revolver, loads the ammunition and lights yet another lantern. 

Hysteria brings with it the urge to throttle Cara Mason, to once again wrap long fingers around the surprisingly delicate throat and force answers out of her. To blame her for this particular misfortune, because this started when she arrived and there is no such thing as coincidence. 

The stench of spilt blood and awareness of the dead woman in the cell beside Cara is the only thing that keeps her from doing exactly that, because despite Kahlan’s anger, she remembers the gunshot that splattered hot, human blood over her face and saved her life in the process. 

So she waits, hip pressed against the desk, eyes trained on the old, creaking door of the Marshall’s office, listening with straining ears for any sign of working men returning victorious.

In a fantasy – in _her_ fantasy world, Richard would be brought back alive. He would smile at her; that handsome, boyish smile, and Kahlan would forget propriety and wrap her arms around him and hold him tight, feel his heart beating against hers and once again remind herself how very fortunate they all are to still be alive in such a violent, unfair world. 

“They won’t find him.” 

Cara’s words are the first that she has spoken since the chaos that entered with the dead Mord’Sith, and truth be told, Kahlan is startled by it. She shifts her head and stares into the cell, watches this strange and beautiful woman watching her. 

In her fantasy world, this woman somehow exists, shoved into it by some unexplainable force. There are no boyish smiles and relieved embraces. 

There is only that same, tangible energy that feels like electricity sparking through her veins. 

Kahlan finds herself afraid of it. 

In the wake of what’s happened, Cara may as well be Death herself. 

“How do you know?” she finds herself asking. Never moving from her spot, instead she shifts on the desk and rests her head against the scratchy brick of the office. The flame in the lantern jumps, as if even the wick fears what Cara can say. 

Cara Mason, Mord’Sith, offers only a grim smirk. “Because where Darken Rahl is going, the Marshall and his posse won’t follow.” Her words are matter-of-fact, twinged with the knowing drawl of a woman who travels in unfortunate circles. A tongue darts out and moistens chapped lips. “Not even for a man with a reputation like Richard Cypher.” 

There is no mockery in her tone, not this time. No sarcasm. Cara says this matter-of-factly, and if Kahlan did not doubt as much as she did, she would suspect even a bit of regret. 

Crickets begin to chirp. Kahlan hears the clomp of a boot against wooden planks. The creak of doors opening and closing. 

Signs that the nightlight of Armadillo is beginning to emerge. 

Kahlan barely registers it. She considers instead the information that Cara has shared and what Richard told her before this all happened. 

_She said she was sorry._

“You know where they’re taking them,” she breathes suddenly. 

Cara’s bright eyes catch hers, hold, and then flit away. 

“Cara,” she whispers. “If you know-“ 

“What good will it do me now?” Cara snaps. The edge in her voice has returned, and with it, the mask. “As soon as your Marshall and his posse return without Richard, I’ll be blamed for all of this.” Her boot scuffs against the floor. 

Kahlan considers that, reflects on her own impulse to do the same thing. 

And yet – 

“If that’s what you truly believe,” she asks quietly, “Then why did you give me the gun?” 

Cara’s jawline tightens. The stare underneath that bowler hat is guarded. “Sheer stupidity,” Cara comments finally with a disgusted snort. 

“Was that the only reason?” 

This stranger only smirks. Those mysterious eyes once again catch hold of hers, as if searching for something. 

Once again, Kahlan finds herself reacting with a sensation that is at once familiar and unfamiliar, strange and yet as distant as a close memory. 

“Had I left myself to the mercy of Trianna,” Cara continued, nodding toward the dead body beside her, “then it would be me covered in a horse blanket, in addition to you. The Mord’Sith have no use for me now. And Neither does Darken Rahl.” 

There is a story here – what Cara Mason will not say, and Kahlan decides that it is terribly, terribly important. If here is one thing that stands consistent regarding the mythos of the Mord’Sith, it is that they regard each other as sisters. There is no loyalty but to each other and Darken Rahl, and it is what makes them so feared – that cold, calculating unity. 

And yet here is a Mord’Sith, who has been beaten and left for dead, would have been killed at the hand of her own ‘sister’ had it not been for Richard’s intervention. 

Who exists in Kahlan’s dreams as an ally, with familiar eyes and a dangerous smirk. 

“Why did they betray you?” 

Whatever answer she hopes to get from Cara is taken away from her when someone pounds at the door pounds fiercely and a cacophony of voices shout at her from the other side of it. 

“Miss Amnell!” she hears. “Get that Mord’Sith whore out here!” 

She recognizes the voice. It belongs to a young, gaptoothed cowboy named Morgan, who is hot headed sober and near psychotic when drunk. 

“Oh Jesus,” she whispers, and louder, she shouts through the door, “Morgan! Get back to your room. Nothing here concerns you.” 

“It damn fucking does concern me!” he hollers, and she hears murmurs of agreement. 

The picture forms quickly, of Morgan shouting his mouth off at the saloon, quickly gaining an audience and searching for someone to blame – an easy target. 

The Mord’Sith outlaw. 

“Just give us the Mord’Sith whore, Miss Amnell!” another man shouts – Mr. Freyes, who has always been kind, but prone to racist misgivings, particularly towards the darker cowboys that ride through Armadillo. “You know as well as we do that she deserves what’s coming to her.” 

They want a hanging. 

Cara launches to her feet and grips the iron that holds her captive. “The welcome wagon,” she drawls. “Lovely.” 

It is what the Marshall and Zedd both feared, and with good reason. 

Kahlan knows all too well the danger of a mob mentality. 

“Stay here,” she snaps at Cara, and then feels immediately silly, because honestly, Cara has nowhere she can go. Cara, at the very least, seems to agree. The look she gives her is positively murderous.

Her embarrassment gives her a moment to compose herself, as she readies her rifle and stuffs the box of matches and Zedd’s pouch in the pocket of the long jacket she has worn to ward off the chill. 

After a moment, Kahlan reaches for the blood-rusted Deputy’s badge and pins it on her lapel. 

With a steadying breath, Kahlan unlatches the door. 

When it opens, she greets the men with a cocked rifle and the blistering sound of a bullet shot from its chamber, skidding into the dirt a foot from Morgan’s left boot. He yelps and nearly falls flat on his ass. 

The startled and belligerent group is quieted enough to catch sight of the way she holds steady aim at Morgan’s chest. 

“Evening, gentlemen,” she says crisply and politely. “I more than anyone can understand the need to find someone to blame for what happened to Deputy Flynn and Deputy Cypher.” She hears the beginnings of protest, and raises her voice above it. “But this is not the solution. Kindly please head back to your homes.” 

Kahlan would certainly not describe herself as an optimist, but any hope she has that this would be the end of it quickly dies when Morgan overcomes his shock and nearly spits at her feet. 

“Like hell!” he snaps, and lifts his own pistol at her. A few of the men are appalled, and in this instance, Kahlan is thankful of the double standard that exists for her gender. 

“Morgan-“ 

“She shot at me first!” he gripes. 

Kahlan stands her ground and braces the rile against her shoulder, cheek pressed against the barrel. 

“Had I wanted to shoot you, Morgan, I wouldn’t have missed,” she points out, and there are enough men in this group that can testify to that fact. 

Morgan’s pistol shakes, and Kahlan becomes more afraid of another of these men getting struck by his crazy aim than herself. 

“You have no right,” he blusters. 

“I have every right,” she interrupts, and lifts her shoulder, until the dull tin catches the light of the torches. “The Marshall deputized me before he left. Which makes me the law.” 

“He deputized a woman?” scoffs Reyes, but this mouth snaps shut soon after, when her eyes connect sharply with his. 

“This is ridiculous!” 

“Care to test my abilities, Morgan?” she asks, and though the drink has given Morgan courage to stand at the other end of her rifle, the other men with him have no such support. Already, Reyes begins to step back, the hot headed anger that brought him here fading in the face of her strength. 

So she focuses her gaze on Morgan. With dark eyes, she takes him deep within her, until she sees into his very soul – the soul of a coward, bolstered only by his faded support. 

Perhaps he sees it, feels it, because he yelps and shakes his head furiously, as if trying to shake her loose. The pistol comes up yet again, trembling so badly it nearly falls from his hand. “None of your confessor magic is going to work on me, Witch!” he cries, and yet the fear in his eyes, the way he sweats, tells a very different story. “Now, I never hurt a decent woman, but I swear to God, if you don’t hand over that whore-“ 

“What, Morgan?” she sneers, and offers no respect. “What will you do? Hang a woman? Hang two? Because that is what you will have to do in order to get through this door.” 

“No be reasonable, Confessor,” Reyes pleads, snatching his hat off his head and wrinkling it in his grasp. “Think about it. She’s the cause of this! You think it was just a coincidence that she comes in town and Darken Rahl follows? The longer she’s here, the longer we’re a target. We deserve justice.” 

“And you’ll have it,” she answers. “When the Marshall gets back, and this woman is taken to Blackwater and interrogated. There will be nothing gained from hanging this woman now.” 

It is her strength that cools the crowd. All but Morgan, who faces a rifle to his chest and logic with the bluster of a fighting rooster. “Do you think I’m going to listen to a lecture of the law from a lady Injun freak?” 

They are words – thought by many, but said by few, and Kahlan almost smiles, because it is enough to shock even Reyes. 

“I would offer to let you read it yourself,” she snaps, “But that would require being able to read, wouldn’t it, Morgan?” 

He gapes at her, flushes horribly. 

The gun lowers, and Reyes himself snatches it out of Morgan’s palm. 

“Reyes,” she calls out, and notices how the man snaps his shoulders up, almost at attention. “Take Morgan and put him back in his room at the saloon before I put him in a cell and let the Marshall deal with him.” 

“We want justice,” Reyes tells her, but already, he is leading Morgan away. 

“You’ll have it,” she promises, and he seems to take her at her word, because he nods quietly. 

As the crowd disperses, Kahlan finds the adrenaline that kept her rifle steady and her voice forceful fleeing with them. Her stance holds, but Kahlan feels such a wave of exhaustion overtake her, she finds herself actually considering shifting the dead body back into the office and crashing onto the mattress on which it rests. 

Instead, she shoves the door back open with her shoulder and steps back into the Marshall’s office. Cara’s still standing. The murderous glare is gone, and it’s in place is a look that is both wonder and suspicion. 

“If you’re right and the posse comes back without Richard,” she explains flatly, locking the door shut behind her, and placing the rifle against the desk, “then our only chance of getting Richard back is you. Allowing a few drunk angry men to hang you will do nothing to save him.” 

It’s a logical answer, and it appears, one that Cara seems to respect. Her hands drop from the iron bars. “Saving my life is becoming somewhat of a distasteful habit for you, Confessor.” 

Kahlan almost smiles as she tiredly steps forward grabs a pouch from the desk. Pulling a loaf of stale bread from it, Kahlan tears off a chunk and offers it through the bars. “If it helps save Richard, then I’ll sacrifice my own life to do it.” 

Cara absorbs that as she takes the bread from Kahlan. Once again, Cara’s touch lingers, a finger smoothing against hers, as if in simple curiosity. 

Kahlan allows it. 

Cara’s hand drops. “Richard Cypher must be quite the specimen, to incur such loyalty.” She’s mocking her. For some odd reason, Kahlan discovers it barely even fazes her. 

“Some would say the Mord’Sith had the same type of loyalty to Darken Rahl,” Kahlan answers evenly, “And yet, here you are. Why are you here, Cara?” she asks, and it is as honest a question as she’s ever asked anyone. 

Cara is quiet only a moment, before her head lifts and her eyes once again meet Kahlan’s. “Do you believe in reincarnation, Confessor?” 

It is a question that throws her, lifted out of her very mind. Kahlan is legitimately stunned, and immediately, her mind flashes again to that perfectly clear image of this exact woman ghosting her lips across her throat, dragging a moan out of her that is nothing if not carnal and full of lust. 

Her chest heaves, and Kahlan swallows the emotion away. Cara continues to stare at her, waiting for her answer, and so Kahlan answers honestly. 

“The tribe that raised me believed in it fervently,” she admits. “They believed that a soul was something that was eternal.” 

Cara nods slowly. “A man like Darken Rahl does not come upon his power without developing a very real motivation for preserving it. He takes his power any way he can get it, but lately…” The lantern flickers, and in it, Kahlan sees the way Cara’s pupil’s dilate, as if she’s reliving some memory. “He’s become fascinated with the idea...” 

“Of reincarnation,” Kahlan clarifies. 

Cara nods grimly. “During a … session… with an Indian chief, Rahl had a vision... that in a past life, Richard Cypher had been responsible for his demise. He became obsessed.” 

The pieces come together like a perfectly fit puzzle, and the result is a sudden horror. “That’s why the Mord’Sith took Richard,” she whispered. 

Cara’s head lifts. “He means to have a ceremony – he wants to destroy Richard’s soul – so as to keep him from doing it to Rahl, in this lifetime or in any other.” 

Magic. Black magic. 

To think of such things in this era seems unthinkable to most. To most, Zedd and his tinkering is what comes closest, but Kahlan has been raised in the old ways, and her sisters were believers. 

As is Darken Rahl. 

And Richard… 

Oh, Richard… is in so much trouble. 

This is a fate that is so much worse than death. 

“Cara,” she whispers, reaching through the iron and catching hold of this strange woman, who has turned her world upside down and now carries her very sanity in her hands. “Why are you here?” 

There is a moment in which Kahlan believes Cara will not answer her. Cara’s gaze jerks down to where Kahlan’s fingers wrap around her bicep, keeping her in place with a fierce, desperate hold. 

“Because Richard was not the only one in Darken Rahl’s vision.” 

Kahlan becomes hauntingly aware of her heartbeat, the way it begins to pound against her chest, and again, she thinks of her dreams – her _visions_ , with swords called Truth, magic that flows from her fingertips, women in leather who spread fear with cruelty, and CARA, who stands with her and … stands with Richard- 

The answer comes to her so quickly, it’s startling. “He saw you too, didn’t he?” she whispers, and it’s so clear. “You also existed in this past life – and in it, you betrayed him. You betrayed him for Richard.” 

Cara’s eyes widen, and Kahlan sees it – she sees it in the way Cara looks at her, that she’s finally guessed the truth. 

“You know where they’re taking him,” she whispers fiercely. “Please, just tell me.” 

But Cara jerks free of her, her movement so powerful and angry, Kahlan almost expects a strike as well. “Unlock this cell,” Cara demands, stepping close to the iron and glaring at her. “And free me from this prison. And I will take you to your Richard and I will help you save him. But before he has his freedom, you must grant me mine.” 

\--

She should have expected as much from a Mord’Sith. Despite whatever visions haunt her of a Cara Mason that is both familiar and intimate, Kahlan knows that in reality, Cara Mason is an outlaw who harbors loyalty to no one, not even her own Darken Rahl. 

And the bargain she has demanded from Kahlan is one she must admit, she might make in her place. 

But it is a devil’s deal. 

So she waits for an agonizing hour, ignoring the woman in the cell who watches her with eyes of a predator. She is sleepless on a horrible night, and the wait nears unbearable when she hears the telltale clomp of hoofs and the whinny of tired horses growing louder outside. 

Zedd calls out to her. She jumps up so fast it’s as if her heart has lodged in her throat with the momentum, nearly choking her as she charges for the door, throwing the bolt and swinging the door open. 

She wants to see Richard, bloody perhaps, but alive and thrilled to see her. 

Instead, it Zedd’s quietly devastated face that is the first she sees, and as he wraps his large hands around her and brings her in close, she finds no comfort in the reunion. 

“I’m so sorry, Kahlan,” she hears in a gruff, choked voice. 

“We chased them all the way down to Rio Bravo,” the Marshall tells her. He shoulders past her and drops his satchel on his desk, wincing as he eases into his hard wooden chair, rubbing at his thighs. “Got as far as Repentance Rock when we realized there was no catching them. Heading straight for the border. I’m sorry, Miss Amnell.” 

He sounds so… defeated and final and for a moment, it just doesn’t make sense. “They crossed into Mexico?” 

“If they haven’t they will soon,” the Marshall responds, flicking open his cigar case and pulling one out. “Headed straight there when we lost the trail.” 

“And you didn’t follow them?” 

The Marshall pauses, his cigar halfway to his mouth. “Into Mexico? That’s a tad bit out of my jurisdiction, darlin’.” 

She looks to Zedd, but the old man just shakes his head, furious and muted. 

“But Marshall…” Pulling out of Zedd’s arms, she heads straight for him. “You can’t-“ 

“I can and I did.” His posture is casual, too casual for this moment, and it’s then that Kahlan realizes that he is steeling himself. He’s expected this reaction; chances are he’s already had this conversation with Zedd, because his answer comes off as rehearsed. “I’m a Marshall, Miss. My job is protect the people in this town. I ain’t no bounty hunter and as far as I’m concerned, the farther that Darken Rahl gets from this town and its citizens, the better.” 

It’s practical and impersonal, and everything she once admired and now suddenly abhors in the Marshall. “This is Richard Cypher!” 

“Who is just a man!” The cigar comes out of his mouth, slams on the desk, and when he stands up, Zedd comes forward. Kahlan pays him no notice. Every bit of her attention focuses on the tired and angry Marshall, who’s eyes spark like flint. “Now don’t get me wrong, he is a hell of a man and I’m damn sorry to lose him. If I coulda saved him I would, but I’m in charge of this town, not one man, and no man is worth chasing into Mexico. Now, Rahl got what he came for and we’re damn lucky it’s just Flynn that got it this time.” 

Zedd’s hands settle onto her shoulders, an attempt at comfort. “Kahlan, I’m sorry.” 

She shrugs him off. “Marshall.” 

The Marshall’s hat comes off, and without it he looks gray and weathered, not nearly as strong as he usually seems. “I’m sorry, Miss Amnell,” he says, and it would hurt less if he wasn’t so damn sincere about it. “I’m damn sorry. I am. But take comfort that at the very least, we got two of theirs.” 

Kahlan’s head whips back towards the cell, and she remembers Cara, who stands at the iron bars and ignores the Marshall completely in favor of staring at her. 

Kahlan’s mouth drops in sudden memory. “Marshall,” she whispers, and tugs at his belt, catching his attention. “Cara Mason. She was one of them. If we could hire a bounty hunter – Cara Mason could tell us where they’ve gone-“ 

The Marshall pauses mid-turn, eyes narrowed. “Did she tell you that?” 

“Yes, she did.” 

The smile he gives her is wry… disappointed. “Miss Kahlan, you’re thinking with a woman’s heart. That whore will say anything to save her own hide, and you know it.” 

“But Marshall-“ 

“There’s nothing we can do, but pray for Richard’s soul.” He pats her awkwardly, and moves away. “Zedd, get her out of here. I’m sorry,” he says again, and then he leaves her there.

\--

It’s the middle of a black night in Armadillo. As Zedd’s shaking hands open the door and Kahlan steps into the pitch darkness of the shop, she finds herself overwhelmed with the sudden smell of Richard. 

Zedd lights a lantern, and suddenly the room is filled with him. Memories of Richard flood her, and she is haunted, searching out every corner of the shop. 

Zedd is an old man, and he looks every inch it as he hobbles around her and settles at his work desk. The grief is painted on his face. 

Were he truly a wizard, his age would not matter. Were it really magic he employed, it would crinkle from his fingertips and then he and she would go… to Mexico and beyond. 

But Zedd is old, and she is a woman, and in this town, the Marshall has declared Richard’s death sentence. 

“We should… try and sleep,” Zedd murmurs, and it’s as far as he gets before he begins to weep, burying his face into his hands, sobbing harshly. 

It is the sound of a man’s heart breaking, and Kahlan can take it no longer. 

Her boot swivels and without hesitation, she opens the counter she has opened countless times before and pulls from it a Winchester Model 1873 center-fire rifle. She lays it on the counter, and then removes a Buntline Special colt pistol, and lays it beside it. 

She pulls out the ammunition and piles it on top of the counter, and adds to it a carbine belt. 

“Kahlan?” she hears. “What are you doing?” 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she snaps and continues gathering together everything of use in Zedd’s store. 

The sage old mother of her tribe noted that her fierce need to protect those she loved was both her greatest strength and her greatest weakness. Never before has such polarity become so apparent as this night. To save her dearest friend, she will broker a deal with a devil, in the form of an outlaw with a split lip, a sneer and a bowler hat. 

_End chapter_


	4. Fight Like Kilkenny Cats

_"With your trigger itch and my feminine intuition_  
We should make quite a team."  
\--

The transition from deputized citizen to outlaw is as simple as a knock on a door. 

For all the climatic moments of an evening such as this, Kahlan discovers that breaking a feared and hated outlaw from the Armadillo town jail involves only smiling tearfully at the Marshall, and slamming the butt of a Colt Revolver directly into his scalp the moment he trustingly turns away to allow her into the room. 

Kahlan watches the man slump to the ground. She ignores the way Cara Mason scrambles to her feet inside her cell, nearly tripping on her own boots as she does so.

These are Kahlan’s actions. She has no remorse. Or so she tells herself, as she bottles down her emotions and wraps her hands around the heavy shoulders of the kind Marshall to shove him over onto his back. Particles of dust fly up from the floor in the disturbance, and they clog into her nostrils, daring her to sneeze. 

She tamps down the instinct, instead pressing her ear against the burly chest to assure herself that he still breathes. His beating heartbeat is sturdy and strong, and Kahlan allows only a simple sigh of relief before she fishes into his pockets and pulls out the large clatter of keys he keeps on his person. It’s almost too easy to focus on their dull shimmer. 

The feeling of her fingers closing around the metal, the sound of them as they clank against each other in her hands is what grounds her, forces her to push to her feet and come to stand only a few feet away from Cara Mason. 

She now has Cara’s freedom, quite literally, in the palm of her hands. 

The moment screams for a wise crack. A smirk. Cara Mason has only existed in Kahlan’s world mere hours and Kahlan can’t help but expect some sort of cracker response, because in the short time she has spent with the woman, that is who she has chosen to be: slicing at her with words, used as sharply as knives. 

But Cara says nothing, and Kahlan wonders briefly if it’s only because Cara can’t quite believe this is happening either. 

“I want your word,” she says finally, breaking into the dense, thick blanket of silence that rests between them. “That if I do this, if I open this door, you will take me to Richard. I need you to promise me,” Kahlan adds and it sounds almost pathetic, the lilt in her tone, the way her voice dips to plead. 

But she has no choice. Her life will be thrown away, sacrificed for Richard and her only assurance in this gamble is a phantom memory of a world that does not exist and the woman behind these bars who can and will assure her that it is not only insanity and over-protective loyalty that drives her. 

But Cara Mason does not indulge her. Instead, the stare in those glimmering eyes moves from her closed fist to the lump of the Marshall on the floor, to Kahlan herself. 

“What good is a promise of a Mord’Sith outlaw?” she asks finally. 

Though the other woman is cynical and full of distrust, Kahlan answers as honestly as she can. “In a minute, I’m going to open this door and take you away from this town – and then I will be viewed as no better than you. Perhaps far worse – because I will be a traitor to a town that has been my home, just as the Mord’Sith have betrayed you.” A bittersweet smile flashes on her face, but it fades quickly. “Give me your word,” she says quietly, “And I will take it.” 

A delicate throat shudders with a sudden deep breath. Cara’s voice is oddly thick as she answers suddenly, “You have no reason to doubt me. I owe the Mord’Sith nothing more than pain.” 

Kahlan shakes her head almost furiously. “I need more than your thirst for vengeance, Cara.” Cara Mason’s eyes widen almost comically at the familiar use of her name, but Kahlan does not care. She is seconds away from putting a bounty on her own head for releasing a killer into the wild – they are far past familiar terms now. 

“That thirst in me is stronger than any bond you hope to glean from me, Confessor,” Cara says, a chuckle sounding off her broken lip that twists a painful knot in Kahlan’s stomach. “But,” she continues, chin lifting and eyes boring deep into hers. “If that is what you require, then you have my word. I will not run – I will lead you to Richard, and I will help you save him.” 

Instinct and trust is what propels to move forward, sliding the key into the lock and twisting with her wrist. 

The lock snaps, and the iron bars creak open. Kahlan steps back, taking the door with her, watching quietly as Cara Mason steps into the Marshall’s office. 

There is nothing between them but an invisible thread of trust that seems as shaky and sturdy as the web of a spider. 

And still, when Kahlan presses a Colt into those calloused, small hands and tells the woman to follow her into the darkness, away from Armadillo, Cara Mason tips that bowler hat over her scowling brow and does. 

\---

The sun begins to peek over the horizon, delicately and quietly illuminating the patchy desert and rolling hills of Rio Bravo. At another time, Kahlan would think this a beautiful tapestry, a reminder that in this wilderness there is such a thing as effortless beauty. This morning, however, she cannot bring herself to enjoy the landscape. 

Every clomp of her mare’s hooves leads her further and further away from the life she knew, the one she struggled to cobble together, and closer to the promise of salvation for Richard. It leaves her with her heart in an odd place, as if it’s itching to both burst from her chest and dig itself in deeper. 

The trio rides in silence, broken only by the occasional curse from Zedd as his ornery mare does something he doesn’t quite agree with and the distant wail of the coyote that run rampant in the wild. They do not stop and with good reason: by this time the Marshall has surely been found, and Kahlan remembers the angry posse quite vividly. 

Should they decide to give chase, it will not just be Cara’s body swinging by a rope at the Hanging Rock. Though Kahlan’s light skin and ties with such good people as Richard and the Marshall have protected her from most of the hostile racism that has affected, she understands that angry mobs needs little in terms of reason to hang a traitorous woman raised by Indians. 

It’s best to move forward, closer to Mexico, to the border and to uncertain freedom and the certain hell that comes with it. 

The horse upon which Cara Mason rides skids over a particularly dense patch of earth, letting out a surprised whinny as it struggles to right itself that breaks the quiet. The outlaw herself shifts her balance on her saddle and tosses a hooded glance back towards Kahlan. 

Sunlight and it’s presence also brings with it the opportunity to study the Mordsith in a way that was just not possible in the dim light of the jail cell. Kahlan cannot resist the urge to stare. It’s foolish to bank on the idea that perhaps the reason she could not read the woman before was due to a lack of brightness, but it’s disconcerting that she can’t, and Kahlan is nothing without actual hope. 

The shadows fade around them, but still Cara Mason’s face remains that enigmatic picture of carefully schooled indifference. And though the welts on Cara’s face have not faded, Kahlan’s only discovery is that her estimation of the beauty of the Mord’Sith was severely lacking. 

In her element, atop that majestic steed and with that bowler hat fitted on her head, and dressed in tight fitting men’s clothes, Cara Mason is quite possibly the most beautiful wild devil she’s ever laid eyes upon. 

It’s absolutely the worst thought she could have at this moment, because suddenly she again is flooded by that very vivid memory, the one that makes her suddenly flush and her heartbeat to quicken, only made worse by a haunted feel of a phantom brush of those lips against hers, pressed so intently upon her. 

It’s terrifying and she does not understand it. Kahlan’s breath goes uneven with her own frustration. Fingers tighten around the reigns of her own mount as Kahlan leans forward in her saddle and digs her thighs in to keep up, sharking the thought off like she would a sudden chill. 

Cara suddenly pulls up short, causing the mare she rides to snort her exasperation. “What is it?” she asks, voice raspy with irritation. This stranger regards her with eyes that shouldn’t feel so familiar and yet so foreign. They should not fill her with such dread and need. 

This is a woman, and Kahlan has never known her desires to be unnatural, and yet this feels so natural it leaves her suddenly at a loss. 

A great deal of this world makes little to no sense to Kahlan. The capacity for cruelty in the humans and the environment around her constantly astonishes her and yet doesn’t surprise her at all. 

The old mother taught her to believe in fate, but Kahlan cannot trust in this dark hour that coming upon this phantom from another life is anything but coincidence. 

And even yet… 

“Do you believe in reincarnation, Cara?” 

There’s a small sense of validation inside of her, because whatever Cara expected to hear, it was more than likely not that. “We’re nearly a day’s ride away from the border,” she begins, a nasty sneer on her split lip, “and edging towards Fort Mercer with less than ten weapons between the three of us and an old man who keeps complaining about the sore in his ass, and this is the moment you choose to begin a philosophical conversation, Confessor?” 

“Call me Kahlan,” she says, and it comes off like an order. “That is my name.” Kahlan notices with some satisfaction that Cara does not contest it. “Darken Rahl believes in the concept of reincarnation with such fervent enthusiasm he’s taken Richard. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t wonder if you believe in it as well?”

Green eyes float to hers, hold steady. “Because I’m a Mord’Sith, I’m bound to the same silly fables and farfetched notions as Darken Rahl?” 

Oddly enough, Cara’s flippant answer feels like a sucker punch. Kahlan expels air and then inhales it again, and can only laugh ruefully at herself for even attempting such a discussion with this stranger. “Call them what you will. The Old Mother believed the idea to be a blueprint for our lives – a road map of our history, the choices we have – the mistakes we’ve made.” 

“And if we ignore such drivel?” 

The answer is devastatingly simple. “Then we are doomed to repeat those mistakes.” Through the corner of her eye, she thinks she sees the Mord’Sith’s chest heave, an odd reaction that pricks Kahlan’s curiosity. “Cara-“ 

“We need to veer off the main road. Soon.” 

The attempt at deflection is so obvious Kahlan finds herself irritated at it. She redirects her horse closer to the other woman, ready to press further, when the scoff of Zedd behind her interrupts her. “And run into thickets and wolves? Possibly pitch forward into some unmarked ditch and break our bones in a ravine? If you want to kill us then just do it and be done with it.” 

He speaks with disdain and barely disguised rage, and though Kahlan decides she can understand it, she finds herself pressing her lips together in exasperation. 

Cara only scoffs. She does not hesitate to turn and glare directly at the grouchy man. “I would tread lightly, Wizard. My oath remains only to the Confessor and by extension to the man she so foolishly hopes to rescue, not to a practically crippled old goat who can barely mount a mare as old as he is.” With that she smiles, teeth glinting in such a way it reminds Kahlan of a wolf baring its teeth. 

It’s as serious a threat as Kahlan has heard, and yet, for some odd reason, the startled and affronted expression on Zedd’s face seems to cheer Cara up, to the point where she actually explains, “We’re getting closer to Fort Mercer. And chances are, someone’s found the good Marshall by now. I realize the two of you of you are new at being anything but law abiding goody-goodies but perhaps erring on the side of caution may be prudent?” 

Cara does have a point. Kahlan may have spent most of her life being the unwanted minority, but that has never entailed such a flagrant disregard for the majority. She turns back to Zedd. “Even if they haven’t caught up by now, if they used the telegraph-“ 

Zedd waves her off with a leathery, tan hand. “Don’t tell me about the telegraph,” he grumbles, gathering the reigns of his horse in his hand and easing her off the path. “I damn near invented it.” 

Zedd has made such grand statements before, but never with such certainty. “Did you?” She can’t help but ask. 

The old man begins to nod fervently, until he sees the disbelief swirling in her eyes. He deflates and then straightens his shoulders. “I would have,” he admits defiantly, looking like a blustering school boy. “The version I created is infinitely better. It runs on steam, not electricity. And had I kept working on it, I could have even transmitted the sound of an actual voice-“ 

“Fascinating,” Cara drones, cutting him off as she leads her steed off the trail into the bush, skirting on ahead of him. “Get a wiggle on, Old Man.” 

“So now it’s Old Man,” he grumbles, as Cara picks her way into the brush. “It appears I’ve lost clout.” 

A small smile stretches across Kahlan’s features, as she leans across her saddle to press into his forearm affectionately. “You’ll always be a Wizard to me.” The affectionate grin fades immediately as Zedd swivels toward her, storminess in her eyes that cause her to go breathless. 

“I may be an old man, Kahlan, but I’m no fool.” 

She blinks, suddenly uneasy. “Zedd-“ 

“Listen to me, Kahlan. You’ve experienced too much heartbreak and loss in your young life to ever be naïve. That I understand.” His worn, leathery hands rub over each other, white and dusty with dryness. “But you always seem determined to see the good in people, even when it doesn’t exist. This whore may owe you her life, but Mord’Sith have never been known for any reputation but their own loyalty to their man and each other.” 

He speaks with a frankness that should not surprise her, and yet it does. Kahlan finds herself almost wounded by it. “Zedd-“ 

“How many times do you think that woman has risked her life for one of her own?” he pressed. “Think and look upon every scar that’s on that body, and with it you’ll see the story of the Mord’Sith. Such a tapestry of history that makes this experience you share simply one of many.” Kahlan’s eyes flitter away, until she focuses on the figure of Cara Mason, trotting further and further away from them. “You’ll get it in the neck with that one. Don’t you forget it.” 

The cold feeling that settles over her is hard to shake. She feels like a fool, and yet Kahlan’s shoulders square and her chin rises. “Perhaps I will, Zedd. But I meant what I said – by hook or by crook, I will find Richard and save him. I’m using that Mord’Sith just as she’s using me, and if that is the extent of our relationship, then so be it. If you have any lingering doubts, turn that mare around and head back to where you came from. I have made my choice. So either fall in line or head back to Armadillo.” 

She claps on the reigns and pushes the horse into a trot, leaving Zedd to follow her, or not. 

It’s his choice. She has made her own. 

\--

By midmorning, the shine on her mare’s coat and the open pants she takes in gives Kahlan no choice but to lead the trio down deep into the ravine, until she sees the glistening of a river that seems deceptively calm for it’s notorious reputation. Though it cuts into a canyon now, the Rio Bravo grows deeper and wider with every kilometer it ventures south. Kahlan knows that should she follow it, she would find herself on the banks of American territory, looking across the water into the violence ridden Mexico, in the midst of a revolution and suspicious of any _gringo_ that crosses it’s borders. 

But here, the water is cool and calm. The horses drink and Kahlan, no longer used to the physical exertion that riding all hours will take on a body, allows herself to stretch the cramped muscles in her thighs. 

“You don’t strike me as a woman who thinks with a Bleeding Heart.” 

Kahlan pauses mid-stretch. Cara Mason is on her haunches, twisting a weed between her thumb and forefinger, chewing the end of it. Her crystal eyes are on her in such a way that Kahlan feels suddenly like a frightened rabbit caught in the devastating gaze of a crouching wolf. “I wasn’t always a city dweller,” she confesses frankly, and turns back to the riverbank, regaining her sense of calm. “You mistake empathy for weakness.” 

“Then why is the festering old coot still trailing behind us?” Cara asks. She is, of course, referring to Zedd, who sits beside his horse as the mare drinks, striking a piece of rock against another, making pleased huffs as it sparks. 

“Zedd has promised me he will only accompany us to the border,” Kahlan answers carefully. Cara smirks in obvious disbelief. 

“And what’s to stop him from following us into the Mexico?” Cara’s head tilts, the straw in her mouth lifting and lowering as she chews. “Maybe we should ground him, break his leg and put a bullet into his head like a maimed horse before he gets us both killed.” 

It’s a devastatingly brutal image, and nearly puts a shiver up Kahlan’s spine. “That isn’t funny,” Kahlan snaps. 

Cara spits the straw out of her mouth and rises to her feet. “II wasn’t trying to be funny,” she says, droll and unconcerned. 

She rises, sweeping around Kahlan and grabbing hold of the reigns of her horse, pulling the huffing mare away from the river’s edge, scattering drops of water across the bank and onto Kahlan’s knee. 

Kahlan lingers. She hears the splash of a beaver; the chitter chatter of some tiny mammal scurrying in the bushes beside the bank. Above her, an eagle soars, scouring the water’s edge for any hint of prey. 

This is life as she knows it: wild and untamed, entirely unforgiving. For a moment, with no badge on her chest and the heavy weight of a gun on her hip, she feels a vibrant part of it. 

It’s a feeling she hasn’t had since she settled into Armadillo – the ghost of herself. 

So she lingers, wasting just a precious moment to slide her fingers through the icy water, remember herself, before she too rises off her haunches and heads toward her wandering mare. She wraps fingers around the leather and begins to tighten the saddle, pushing the animal towards Cara. 

If Cara notices the other woman edging near, she makes no mention of it. 

“Zedd may surprise you,” Kahlan begins carefully. “He is wise, and what he lacks in youth he makes up for in wisdom and experience. He is an actual genius.” 

Cara’s mouth turns down in a smirk that is both mockingly condescending and slightly infuriating. “I’ve met more men than I can stomach who consider themselves geniuses, Confessor. If it’s one thing that gender does not lack, it’s ego.” 

Kahlan finds herself unable to argue. With a sigh and a push, she’s back in her saddle, calling out to Zedd to join them as Cara does the same, nearing them toward the path that led them to the water’s edge. She’s content to ride in silence as they move through the ravine, but as they reach the opening of the canyon and Cara takes a right, Kahlan finds herself suddenly pulling back on her reigns. 

“This isn’t the way to the Border.” 

With a glance back at her shoulders, Cara only shrugs. “You’re right,” she responds, her Western drawl prominent in her laziness. “It’s not.” 

“Then where are we going?” Again, no answer. Kahlan resist the urge to glance at Zedd, and instead digs in her spurs, trotting the horse forward until she can lean across the saddle and grab hold of the other woman’s bicep. “Cara.” 

Her fingers tighten, and Cara stops. Green eyes flicker from her face to the fingers that are warm against her. The gaze is hooded, as if Cara is not expecting such familiarity. Truthfully, Kahlan is surprised herself, and though her cheeks flush, she does not let go. “Plainview,” Cara says after a moment. 

Plainview… The old mining camp that’s become a rickety, wild settlement that can barely be called a town. Kahlan’s fingers loosen, but her brow furrows. 

“Richard isn’t in Plainview,” she states, and then feels stupid, because that much is obvious. 

“No,” Cara sighs, and it’s clear she has very much the same opinion of Kahlan. “And neither is Darken Rahl, but we’re going just the same.” With that, she digs in her heels, and the horse starts forward. 

“Cara, there isn’t time to waste-“ 

“Believe me, Confessor, the sooner my debt to you is paid, the sooner I regain my own freedom,” Cara snarls, biting into her own argument. “I have no wish to drag this adventure any further. Or do you still not trust me, Confessor?” 

It’s then that she sees it – the wild animal that exists instead of Cara. The old mother had told her once of the spirit animals that live within them, and here is Cara’s so wide open and on display – a caged cougar that can neither be tamed nor beaten. 

She’s nursing her wounds now, hidden deep within her, beyond those blue-cat eyes, and that fading split lip. 

Kahlan cannot help but be spellbound at the tragic beauty of it. It strikes a familiar chord, and it makes her wonder suddenly, what type of woman Cara would have been had she not been thrust so forcefully into the life of a Mord’Sith whore. 

“Cara, I trust you,” she finds herself saying. She can feel the stare of Zedd burning into her back, but she will not look at him. Her intensity is reserved for this woman. “I put my life in your hands the same way you have put your life in mine. Though our journey is just beginning, please know that I wouldn’t have let you out of that cell if I hadn’t given you my trust and faith. We’re in this together, Cara.” Cara’s jaw tightens. Her eyes flicker away. “But if that’s how we do things then you need to spare me some patience and help me understand. Why Plainview?” A coyote howls in the distance. The horse shuffles her weight, and Cara resettles herself. The answer comes to Kahlan so suddenly if it’s as Cara’s spoken it herself. “You don’t know where Darken Rahl is, do you?” 

“Had I known exactly where he is, Richard would have found a body on the road instead of a half dead Mord’Sith,” Cara huffs suddenly, but the bite in her tone is gone. When she looks at Kahlan, that animal spirit inside of her seems to have retracted her claws, because her answer is frank and careful. “But in Plainview, there is someone who may.” 

This time, when Cara takes the lead, Kahlan allows it. 

\--

Just as with any town, Kahlan smells Plainview before she actually sees it. The tiny settlement of rickety wooden buildings and tents smells of coal and refuse. The stench of people, human waste and rotting food. 

A shot bangs out from somewhere in the town’s vicinity as they near it, then another, and as Zedd’s horse whinny’s in protest, Kahlan stops short, casting their Mord’Sith guide a dubious frown. Cara’s brow raises in return, but there’s a slight smile on her face as she shakes her head and keeps riding forward. 

With a resigned bite of her lower lip, Kahlan follows her lead. 

Months ago, she heard rumors of the Railroad coming to Plainview, but from the looks of it, it seems a long time coming. Kahlan knows that as soon as the iron rods are locks in place, this place will lose some of it’s wild nature. Preachers and Christians have been aching to reach Plainview – it’s lawless reputation has reached many ears. But she can tell as soon as they enter the settlement, that Plainview takes pride in it’s wildness. There is no civilization here. There are only tattered, covered wagons, barking wild dogs and bearded, dirty miners who stare unabashedly at the two women and the old man as they canter down the dirt muddy street that makes their main road. 

“Lookit here!” a red-headed man whistles. “Denna’s got herself some new recruits!” 

Kahlan tightens one hand on her reigns, places the other on the hilt of her Colt. Cara pays them no attention at all. One of the men even is so bold as to come forward, until he sees the colored leather of Cara’s Mord’Sith chaps. It’s almost amusing, the way his face drains color, and he stumbles on his own feet, slipping back into a dirty water trough. 

“This isn’t a town for a respectable woman,” Zedd mutters behind them, and the comment makes Cara smile. 

“It’s a good thing the women who live here then aren’t what you deem respectable, isn’t it?” she calls out, and turns off towards the Main Saloon. “Come on. The woman we’re looking for is inside.” A blustering drunken man is shoved suddenly out of it’s doors, topping down the wooden stairs and rolling like a dusty weed. Cara’s horse daintily steps over him and heads to the hitching post. 

“A whorehouse,” Zedd sighs as he sidles up beside Kahlan, observing the ramshackle building, by far the largest on the street. “The Mord’Sith has brought us to a whorehouse.” 

Kahlan watches as Cara dismounts, and then waits impatiently for them to follow. “What kind of company did you honestly expect Cara to keep, Zedd?” she finds herself asking. “The town preacher?” She kicks and leads the horse forward. 

“I don’t believe this town has a preacher,” he mumbles behind her, but obediently rides forward. 

\--


	5. A Hog-Killin' Time

_"I just know that there are two theories when arguing with women._  
And neither one works. "  
-

Kahlan isn’t a hypocrite. She knows full well that the Armadillo Saloon is not a beacon of respectability. Just like Plainview’s establishment, it has its share of prostitutes and gamblers. And unlike much of her fellow townsfolk, Kahlan harbors no ill will towards the den of iniquity. Every soul has its own version of sin. It’s part of being human. 

But Plainview is a different animal. There is an extreme type of lawlessness here, and it sets Kahlan on edge as she climbs the stairs of a building that is by far the most impressive on the street. It’s solid and sturdy, a full two stories, and the music and voices that float out of it are loud and chaotic. There is no rhyme or rhythm here and Kahlan feels suddenly like a little girl playing dress up in a crowd of mercenaries. 

With her adopted tribe, Kahlan was raised to be confident and secure in her own femininity, but the American West has no such respect for her gender. And although Armadillo has its share of bigots and misogynists, at the very least Kahlan held the Marshall’s respect, and the fear that came with her notoriety as the ‘Mother Confessor’ kept many men from taking liberties. 

In Plainview, not even Zedd has the power to give her much more than a fortifying smile. So she focuses instead on the straight, confident posture of the woman who leads her, following Cara through the swinging, creaking wooden door and into the establishment. 

At first she can only notice the smell. It’s foul. The stink of alcohol and body odor settles over the room like a fog, and the smoke of cigars and pipes stings her eyes and clogs her nostrils. She hears Zedd cough behind her, grumble furiously about his health. 

The look on Cara’s face as she looks back at her is amused. It’s eerily reminiscent of a housecat toying with a mouse. The Mord’Sith is in her element here, a whore in a whorehouse. This is Cara’s world, and now that they are inside of it, it’s suddenly quite clear how much trust and faith Kahlan has given to her. 

A rush of anxiety overwhelms her, as she remembers Zedd’s warnings. 

“Are you alright?” she hears. Cara is now standing close enough to have her palm pressed against Kahlan’s forearm, touching gently. It’s odd and disconcerting that Kahlan only presses in closer, just enough to recognize the scent of the other woman and allow it to steady her; a desperate attempt to clear her head. 

“I’m fine,” she manages. Crystal eyes lock with hers, testing her strength, and that smirk fades, along with Cara’s touch. 

“Stay close, Kahlan.” Cara’s words miss her now familiar sarcastic bite. “In here you are no Confessor.” 

She understands. Of course she understands. Now she becomes aware of the stares, the suspicious glances that could be quite easily mistaken for murderous. She is nothing but a stranger here, a woman and with no man to speak for her but an old coot who is sniveling and hacking up a lung. 

In Plainview there is no Marshall with a gun and a cell and no badge to give her any sort of authority. In this room full of strangers she and Zedd have no friend but Cara. 

It’s terrifying that somehow she thinks that’s enough. 

“Cara Mason.” It’s a foreign voice that intrudes. Cara steps away from her to reveal a beautiful harlot coming towards them, a look of recognition on her face as she eyeballs the Mord’Sith. The woman is older, but not by much more than a few years. There are lines on her face that tell of a hard life, but it is the only give away. She wears her blonde hair in golden ringlets that fall tantalizingly over her bare shoulders, and her dress is a fashionable one, with an expensive bustle and tiny bits of fabric that speak to its expense. “What a pleasant surprise.” 

She walks with her head held high and a smirk on her face. It’s eerily reminiscent of Cara’s own smile – one that does not match her eyes and offers menacing suspicion rather than friendly comfort. 

“Sister Denna,” Cara says, tone calm but solid, carrying easily over the piano player’s jaunty tunes and the patronage around them, clinking drinks, gambling, and bartering for whores. “Life has been treating you well.” 

Denna shakes her head and tuts at her, eyes lowering demurely. “Not sure that’s entirely appropriate now, Cara,” she responds, enunciating her name sharply. “After all, you may still be in Mord’Sith leather, but it’s been quite clear for some time now that Darken Rahl is nothing more to me but another paying customer.” She speaks with a lilt, as if this is part of an amusing dance, and Cara is her willing partner. “Though with the company you keep, people may talk about you,” she continues as her focus shifts past Cara herself, to Kahlan and Zedd. “I see no sisters with you, Cara.” 

This Denna is shrewd, and though Cara made no mention of it, it’s perfectly clear that this stranger is a former Mord’Sith herself. A sudden horror grips Kahlan as she locks eyes with the woman and realizes that, just as with Cara, there is no ability to read her. 

She feels naked and vulnerable, and perhaps it shows on her face, because the smile that widens on Denna’s face brings Cara that much closer to her, until she’s nearly pressed against her, a solid wall of support in form of a shorter woman. 

“Then you have eyes,” Cara drawls with an acidic snap. “We need to talk, Denna.” 

Kahlan waits and watches as the silent conversation takes place with tense glances that pass between both women. 

“Fine,” Denna says after a moment, louder than before. Her head tilts back. “I have a room upstairs. Not HIM,” she continues, barking back as Zedd makes a move to come up behind them. “No men upstairs unless they have paid for it.” 

“I’m a respectable man!” growls Zedd, offended. It’s disconcerting – how immediately two burly men with side arms come forward to lay rough hands on Zedd’s shoulders, keeping him in place. “Kahlan!” he yelps. 

“Zedd!” she snaps, but Cara who holds her back with a strong grip on her elbow and a warning glare. 

“Enough with the theatrics, Denna,” she spits. “He’s an old man and harmless.” 

“And there are rules that must be respected,” Denna replies, just as coldly. “Just because you coddle old men doesn’t mean I have any such inclination. If he’s truly a friend then he can sit at the bar and enjoy a drink, courtesy of the house, of course.” 

“Fine,” Cara answers. Kahlan’s mouth opens, ready to protest. “I’m telling him to wait and have a drink and maybe a whore,” Cara snits at her, a furious whisper that’s not exactly quiet. “It’s hardly torture.” 

“I won’t leave Kahlan!” he shouts stubbornly. 

Cara’s glare pins him with intense dislike. “Kahlan will be fine. She will be with me.” 

“That’s small comfort,” he retorts. 

Perhaps Cara in her frustration of Zedd doesn’t notice the way Denna’s mouth quirks, her careful observation of the group and the dynamics, but Kahlan does. 

It’s the literal equivalent of a gambler showing his hand, and will help no one. 

“Zedd, that’s comfort enough for me,” she states, loud and clear, with as much authority as she can muster. 

As useless as her talents as a ‘Confessor’ seem to be against Cara and her kind, they seem to work perfectly on Zedd. The old man swallows, but understands. 

With a reassuring smile, she steps away from the Zedd, and closer to Cara. “I’ll be back.” 

He has no choice but to stand still. In this saloon, being a man has no bearing when the patron is the madame and a former Mord’Sith. “I’ll be here,” he mumbles, and eyes the bar. “Getting drunk.” 

As Kahlan follows Cara and Denna closely up the creaking stairs, past women dressed in fancy dresses and others in hardly anything at all, she discovers that she envies him. 

\--

Denna’s ‘room’ is an extravagant thing, filled with linens and expensive imported furniture. She obviously takes pride in it, watching with a proud smirk as she and Cara take in the state of it – the luxurious bed and the wooden vanity. 

It reminds Kahlan of a room that would be seen in a gentrified town like Blackwater, not in the wild backpost that is Plainview. Clearly the work of a madame suits her. 

“A drink?” Denna asks, and doesn’t wait for an answer. She begins pouring amber liquid into glasses that sit on top of a nearby desk. 

“We have no time for that, Denna,” Cara snaps, and Denna falters in her actions, smirk fading at Cara’s shortness. 

“There’s no need to be rude, Cara. I’m merely trying to be social to you and your new friend.” Once again, Denna’s eyes look her over. She’s being studied, in such a way that Kahlan feels almost naked. 

Maybe Cara senses it. Once again, she moves in front of her, blocking her from Denna’s curious eyes. 

“You and I have never been social.” 

“I beg to differ,” Denna purrs back. She comes forward, creaking steps on the wood, forgetting Kahlan completely as she presses the drink into Cara’s hand and deliberately does not move back. “I remember a time when you and I were … quite close.” 

The room remains silent, but Kahlan is no fool. She feels a flush overtake her at the insinuation, in how Denna’s fingers trace against Cara’s over the glass. They speak of possession and sensual intent. An attempt to stake a claim that should repulse her and it does, but not in the way she wants it to. 

Her sudden intense dislike of Denna has nothing to do with the American morality thrust upon her and everything to do with the images that now assault her imagination. 

“I think it’s quite obvious that you and Cara haven’t been close for a very long time,” she finds herself snapping. Both women turn to pin her in their dark stares, and yet she does not retract. “Perhaps instead of trying to relive ancient events you listen to what Cara has to say.” 

For a moment, neither woman speaks. Kahlan’s hands head to her hips. Her chin juts up challengingly. 

“Your kitten has claws, Cara,” Denna says, with a sudden chuckle, like Kahlan is a furry animal she has decided she would like to pet instead of kick. “Quite impressive to win the Mother Confessor over so quickly.” 

She betrays her shock with an inward gasp and immediately regrets doing so. Kahlan shouldn’t be surprised. Cara knew who she was, and she told her explicitly that the Mord’Sith had made it a point to know of her existence. 

Still, the knowing smirk on Denna’s face, the familiar way she smiles at her, is chilling. 

Cara’s eyes meet her own. She regards her intensely, but instead of responding, she moves away from Kahlan, towards the bar itself. Without preamble, she pours another glass of whiskey. As she turns, she brings her own drink to her lips and takes a hard swallow, grimacing at the taste. She holds the glass she just poured out to Denna. 

“You and I both know this isn’t a social call, Denna,” she states, voice rough from the burning alcohol. “I came to you for information.” 

Denna eyes her old friend, and there is a breathless moment, before Denna glances quickly at Kahlan and turns away from her, dismissing her in favor of Cara and her offered drink. “And what makes you think I’m willing to give it to you so easily?” she asks, enjoying this shift of balance far too much. “I’m no longer Mord’Sith, Cara. I harbor no loyalty to you or your leathers.” 

“Funny thing,” Cara responds dryly. “Neither do I.” 

Denna absorbs that. “Since when?” 

“Since I was betrayed, beaten, left for dead and nearly lynched.” 

The shock on Denna’s face is almost refreshing to see, but she recovers quickly, with a sip of her whiskey and a low, sadistic chuckle. “My,” she muses after a moment. “You have been busy.” She eyes the whiskey. “I was wondering about the bruises. I won’t lie and say I don’t find a bit of poetic justice in it. You know, Kahlan, when I left the Mord’Sith, Cara told me I was a fool for turning my back on him.” 

Cara doesn’t look at Kahlan, but Kahlan discovers that it’s not hard to believe. The Cara Mason she met in the cell was a cold, calculating woman. 

Why is it that it suddenly seems so long ago? 

“Would you like an education on what Cara did to me exactly when I left Darken Rahl, Confessor?” 

The glass in Cara’s hand slams down on the dark desk, sloshing over liquid and putting an end to further conversation from Denna. “What’s done is done. And don’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing.” 

“And clearly someone did,” Denna remarks, nodding to the bruises that mar Cara’s tan cheek. 

“I’m grateful,” Cara says after a moment, tongue darting out to brush against the scab on her lower lip. “I’m done with taking orders. Darken Rahl is the fool for letting me live. He should have killed me.” Denna’s mouth quirks, but the smile falters quickly when Cara continues. “I know what you pay him in exchange for your freedom. You may not wear the chaps but you are as indebted to him as you ever were.” 

Denna takes a moment to take another drink, crossing her legs and eyeing the other woman with mistrust. “And you’ll save me from my servitude?” she asks, voice dripping the now familiar sarcasm. “How noble and chivalrous.” Her eyes once again meet Kahlan’s. “She’s charming when she’s like this. Don’t you agree?” 

“I’m offering to rid you of an inconvenience.” The harsh tone in Cara’s voice indicates she’s losing her patience. “But to do that I need to find him.” 

“You’d betray your Darken Rahl?” Denna asks. Her expression smacks of disbelief and sadistic amusement. 

“He betrayed me first.” 

Denna plays with her drink, before lifting hooded, calculating eyes. “And what does Dahlia think of all this?” 

The emphasis she places on the name is significant. It’s meant to mean something to Kahlan, and smacks of yet another reminder that she knows next to nothing of Cara Mason. 

The woman, the stranger who still seems so familiar, stiffens her shoulders and does not look at her. “Dahlia’s thoughts and actions are no longer my concern.” 

“Yes, I’ve noticed you’ve recently enjoyed a change of scenery.” Denna means of course, Kahlan. The way she observes Kahlan now reminds her of the way she’s seen prospectors view a potential horse. “A brunette. Your taste has changed, Cara.” 

She speaks to Cara with hidden innuendos and thinly veiled secrets, as if this is a game and Cara and Kahlan are both play things. It arouses the same anger as before, protective and fierce. “Perhaps you don’t know Cara as well as you thought you did.” 

Denna tosses a smirk Kahlan’s way. “Then isn’t she lucky she’s run into someone who knows her so well?” 

“Denna, enough.” Cara it appears has lost her patience as well. “We don’t have time for this.” 

“You’re wrong, Cara.” The smile fades from Denna’s face, and her expression is now serious as she regards her former Mord’Sith sister. “I have all the time in the world.” 

“Tell me where he is.” 

“Tell me why you’re after him,” Denna replies flatly. “And do not say revenge. That isn’t good enough. Not for us.” 

“It’s no secret that Rahl has been teetering on the edge of madness for quite some time.” 

Denna considers that. She swallows the last of her drink, and studies the rim. “And if he’s tipped, what do I care?” 

“You know as well as I do that Rahl trusted no one like he did me.” That information is new to Kahlan. She watches Cara intensely, but again, she is ignored. There is a connection here, a past and a sisterhood of which she has no part. “If he turned on me he can turn on you, Denna.” 

“If Rahl truly has turned his back on you then by helping you I would have sign my own death sentence.” 

“Not if I can get to him first.” 

Denna laughs – too loud and boisterous to be anything but mocking. “With what? An old man and a half breed witch?” 

“That’s not your concern,” Cara says, as close to shouting as Kahlan has seen. It’s an odd reaction, nearly visceral and emotional, and it shouldn’t be coming from Cara. Denna has struck a nerve. 

Denna sees it too. “It should be,” she snaps, but her demeanor calms. “But I’m not unreasonable. If you need information, I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.” Denna’s words are drawn out, soft and silken like a deadly serpent’s hiss. 

The meaning hands in the air, as the world around her comes to life. Kahlan hears the grunts of a man in the room next door, the over-exuberant cries of pleasure from the whore that services him. 

She sees the bed, with the rumpled sheets, and the look in Denna’s eyes as she lets them linger over Cara’s body, from the dark boots to the breasts that press against her buttoned vest. Kahlan recognizes it as lust. 

It’s startling, to see it so shamelessly displayed on the face of a woman, but the intention is clear. 

They are bargaining for a devil’s deal and Cara’s services. 

“Cara,” Kahlan begins, suddenly horrified. 

“Kahlan,” Cara responds quietly. “Go check on the old man. Knowing the swill Denna serves, he may be passed out in a gutter by now.” 

Denna’s smile widens. “Yes, Kahlan,” she says melodiously, tipping her finger to the door. “Run along and let the adults talk.” 

The distaste for the other woman tastes like bile on her tongue. “Cara,” she pleads. "I won’t let you sell yourself like a -”

“Like what, darling?” Denna interrupts sweetly. “A whore?” Kahlan snaps her mouth shut, eyes glaring murderously at the woman. “That’s what she is. That’s what we all are,” Denna adds. “And there are worse things to be.” 

Kahlan turns, but it’s Cara who stops any movement toward the other woman. She grips her with a solid, firm hold, fingers wrapped around her wrist, keeping her attention focused on her. “You said you trusted me.” 

“Cara.” 

“Trust me now. Richard is the one who needs saving. Not me.” 

The tears that threaten to spill over sting with the reminder, and yet Kahlan will not give Denna the satisfaction. She turns away from Cara, because this feels like a betrayal and yet nothing could be further from the truth. 

What exists in her mind is not their reality, and Kahlan is never more aware of it as when she heads for the door and steps through into the hallway, and closes the door behind her. 

\--

Outside of the door, the world continues to move on in Plainview. Kahlan rests on the banner, unwilling to move away just yet. Her fingers grip the wooden support, and for a moment she is overwhelmed. 

Cara has invaded her. She has breathed her in and it has intoxicated her. 

The old mother spoke once of people with spirits so strong their energy could become blinding, rising above the physical to infect the mind. These are the people that others die for. These are the people whose faces start wars. Who can convince a man to kill. 

These are the people who are loved more than they can love. 

She warned of such people, told Kahlan that more often than not they were wild spirits, destined to roam and to never be tamed. 

To win the loyalty of such a person is considered a feat to be admired. 

To be loyal to such a person is shameful and stupid. 

And yet it has been only but a day, and Kahlan feels her heart pound and her chest tremble, because she has been infected with dreams and visions that skew her vision of the woman that she needs. 

She needs Cara in order to save Richard. 

There is no other reason. Cara Mason is a whore. She is a killer. And the reason she protects Kahlan is because she is repaying a debt. Nothing more. 

For all of Kahlan’s visions, for every phantom memory that festers in Kahlan’s brain of this woman’s lips on her body, branding her with overwhelming emotional and physical need, the reality is that those memories are a dangerous falsehood. 

She thinks on Richard. She tries to picture his smile. The way his eyes shine with his goodness. How every emotion flows through him. She can read him perfectly. He is not a complicated man and he has no wish to be. Kahlan knows that the kindness in him flows out of him until it inspires those around him. 

His destiny is to become a leader. 

It is not to die at the hands of a mad man. 

It is for him that she is doing this, and it is for that reason that Cara’s deal with the devil named Denna should be honored. Denna has information and Cara will acquire it. 

Kahlan exhales. She discovers her knuckles are white. Carefully, she loosens her grip, and looks over the gambling floor below her. She takes notice of the men that crowd around the gambling takes, the stink of piss and whiskey that floats up from the floor, and the jaunty tune of the piano player, who seems lost in his own world. Flitting about between them are Denna’s woman, who laugh too loud and slap playfully, who lift their skirts and display their sensually with such ease that for a moment Kahlan feels almost envious. 

Western civilization does not agree with Kahlan to the extent it does Zedd and Richard. Growing up with the Old Mother, Kahlan was taught to never be ashamed, but modern propriety seems filled with that emotion. 

It doesn’t take long to find Zedd. 

Kahlan makes her way down the stairs. She ignores the men who whistle at her and when one reaches for her, she quickly takes hold of his thumb and twists it, leaving him howling and the men who are with him hooting in appreciation. 

Kahlan is in no mood. She settles herself next to Zedd, and when he looks at her, takes his drink and tilts the liquid into her throat. 

The look of surprise and relief that floats over his face is instantaneous, but it fades completely when he realizes that she is alone.  
“And where’s the Mord’Sith? She told me she wouldn’t leave you.” 

She grimaces; shoots him a look. “Her name is Cara, Zedd. She’s getting the information that we need,” she tells him tersely. She’s used to the noise now… she’s getting used to the smell. Kahlan’s eyes float back up the room with the closed door. 

Maybe she’s still not used to anything. 

“Good,” Zedd grumbles. “The sooner we leave this place the better.” 

Already irritated, Kahlan finds her annoyance growing. “It’s a whorehouse, Zedd,” she snaps. “Nothing more, nothing less. There is no shame in what these woman do.” 

It’s harder, meaner than Kahlan’s usual character, and Zedd is confused. He stares at her. “Kahlan, I simply meant that it means we can get to the border and closer to saving Richard. I know very well what a whorehouse is.” He sighs. “I’m ashamed to say that in my earlier days I knew them quite well.” 

It’s not a surprise. Kahlan’s heard rumors before of Zedd’s bachelor life. A saint he was not. “Tell me, Zedd. When you saw those women, laid with them-“ 

“Kahlan,” he sputters, clearly shocked by her course language. 

“Did you ever consider them as women? Or were they simply whores?” 

Zedd frowns. “Where is this coming from, Kahlan?” 

Kahlan considers the woman in this place, considers Denna. “You don’t know the circumstances behind any woman in this room. The choices that were made or the choices that they didn’t have. Who is to say that had you or Richard not taken me in, I wouldn’t have ended up in the exact same position?” 

The idea seems to absolutely horrify Zedd. “Kahlan, that would have never been an option for you. And when we get Richard back, you can be married and- “ 

The anger is nearly blinding. Kahlan’s hand slams down on the bar, making the old man jump with the force of it. “I don’t care to marry Richard, Zedd!” she spits out, pulse pounding with her absolute annoyance. “There is no part of me that wishes to makes him my Lord or master.”

In the wake of her outburst, she seems to have stolen the very breath out of Zedd. He stares at her as if he sees a stranger, and Kahlan finds her emotion bleeding out of her. 

She sighs heavily, rubbing her palm against her neck and closing her eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” she hears in a hurt, spiteful tone. “If that’s what you think marriage is, then you are truly mistaken.” 

“And you are mistaken if you believe that my love of Richard comes from any desire to be his woman. I am his friend and his equal and as his equal I will die for his sake, as he would for mine. But not because he is a man and not because I am a woman. It is because Richard is my family. I’d like to think that if I the positions were reversed, Richard would think the very same of me.” 

Zedd has nothing to say to that. 

The man behind the bar spots the empty glass and pours it full again. 

They sit together, the old man and the Confessor, and share another drink. 

\--

It’s begins with a murmur. A whisper of a conversation that at first blends in with the noise around them. Kahlan pays no attention to it at first. Zedd is mumbling in her ear about the obvious cheating of the man at the poker table, preferring to change the subject in the wake of Kahlan’s rant than continue to discuss the awkward topic. The crusty man behind them with the dirty beard could be talking about anything, until she hears that fateful word ‘Mord’Sith’. 

“It’s just one Mord’Sith whore!” she hears, and her hand goes immediately to Zedd, shutting him up with a press against his forearm. 

“You know as well as I do that if there’s one of them whore there’s ten right behind ‘em. It’s suicide.” 

“T’ain’t what I heard. Cowboy that rode up from Fort Mercer says there’s a bounty on that whore. A big one.” 

“You’re shitting me.” 

“Shit you not, boy. I say we posse up and deliver that whore back up to that Armadillah sheriff.” 

Kahlan’s chest constricts. She sucks in a harsh breath, feels the press of her gun against her ribs as she shares a wild look with Zedd. 

“Bounty or not, if we touch a woman in Denna’s place she’ll have our heads.” 

“So we get her when she leaves. That whore ain’t staying. You know Denna. She don’t like competition.” Kahlan swallows hard, feels the bob of emotion in her throat that is almost painful. “Get the boys together and snag her horse-“ 

She has heard enough. “Damn that girl for being stupid enough to wear those leathers in here,” Zedd mumbles, and leans forward, voice quiet and urgent, whispering into her ear. “You need to warn Cara and warn her now.” 

“What will you do?” she asks, urgent and anxious as Zedd frowns, thoughts flying across his pupils as quick as lightning. 

“The pepper bombs,” he breathes. “It’ll be enough to distract them. Go.” 

The men behind them start to move, and suddenly there is no more time. Kahlan launches out of her seat, leaving Zedd to swivel off the stool in the other direction. 

This time she pushes, both whores and men, out of her way, making her way up the stairs and toward that damn closed door. 

No one stops her. Kahlan briefly wonders if perhaps it’s because no one would dare enter Denna’s room without knocking. 

She does not wonder at the consequences. She shoves hard against the door, pushing her weight against it to launch it open. 

She does not make any conclusions as to what has taken place. She sees that Cara’s vest is unbuttoned. She sees the familiar way Denna splays across her bed, the strap of her dress falling off of one shoulder, leaving nearly nothing to the imagination. But Cara is rising out of the chair across the room, a scotch in her hand, and the look on both women is surprise at the intrusion. 

There is no expectation. There is no time for disappointment or jealous bitterness. 

Denna pushes off the bed. There is a scowl on her face. “What gave you the nerve-“ 

Kahlan pays her no mind. “Cara, a group of men downstairs noticed your chaps. They heard about the reward the Marshal put on your head. They’re forming a posse and they’re planning to ambush us once we’re outside.” 

Cara whirls, all her fevered attention suddenly on Denna, but the other woman just shakes her head in annoyed discontent. “They should know better than to plot against me in my own establishment.” She straightens, as Cara moves toward Kahlan, reaching for her forearm to pull her further into the room, shutting the door behind her. 

Already, she is pulling the Colt weapon out of her holster, checking the chamber for the bullets. “Where is the Wizard?”

“He plans to distract them with pepper bombs.” Both women give her blank looks. Kahlan shakes her head in impatience. “You yourself call him the Wizard. What do you imagine he’s done to earn such a name?” 

“Do you have horses?” Cara asks, and surprisingly, Denna nods. 

“Come with me,” she says, pausing only to lift her skirts and produce a tiny gun that’s pinned against her garter. “They’re outside.” 

Kahlan puts her hand on Cara’s waist, keeping her from following. “I told you they were possying up outside!” 

“What kind of fool do you take me for?” Denna spits. “You can take the whore out of the Mord’Sith, but a Mord’Sith she’ll forever remain. The front door isn’t the only exit in this place.” 

She jerks her head toward her door. 

Kahlan knows her eyes look anxious, but as she looks toward Cara, the other woman does not mirror her sentiment. Instead, a smirk curls on the full lips, enough to cause Kahlan to pause, unsure of the look. 

“What is it?” she breathes. 

Cara’s brow arches. “Yet again, you’ve taken it upon yourself to save me from certain death. I’m not a cat, Kahlan. I have only one life to live and only so many debts I can repay.” 

In the face of this threat, Cara’s response is … almost playful. Kahlan discovers that it throws her, knocks away the anxious fear that grips her heart and tugs a smile on her face that feels foreign and familiar all at once. 

Trust this stranger to decide to be charming at a time such as this. 

“Then I trust I’ll never be rid of you,” she finds herself tossing back, and does not wait for Cara’s response. She finds Denna pushing into another room, and is abruptly startled by the grunting man who jerks off the squealing women as they pass. 

“Time’s up. Get out,” Denna snaps and the man begins to sputter. 

“What the hell do yo-“ 

He shuts up quite quickly when Cara steps forward and grabs hold of his collar, jerking him up with a burst of strength and speed that’s almost astonishing. The pants that are currently around his ankle trip him off, and the result is him staggering, struggling against Cara’s grip like a gutted fish. 

The whore beneath him scrambles up immediately and flees without a backward glance. 

“Unless you’d like me to stick the muzzle of this gun into a hole that usually secretes, I would listen to Miss Denna.” 

It’s only then that Kahlan realizes that the Colt Cara holds is positioned in a rather … unfortunate way against the man’s testicles.

There’s a distinctive click, and the miner hollers as Cara lets go, stumbling to his feet and then crawling madly to the door. 

Denna has no reaction at all. Her focus instead is on pushing aside a piece of carpet that hands on the wall, and reveals behind it a door. 

“A secret passage?” Kahlan breathes. “I’ve only read of such things in Zedd’s books.” 

The look Denna gives her reeks of disdain. “Well then isn’t this exciting for you?” she sneers, and opens the door, revealing a rickety stair case. “Come on.” 

“Wait-“ Kahlan breathes, suddenly struck by a horrifying thought. “What about Zedd?” 

Cara stills. She glances toward the door that leads to the saloon and says just as quickly, “We said we would leave him at the border. We have no choice but to leave him now instead.” 

It’s unthinkable. “We can’t!” 

“He was meant to be a distraction, then let him distract,” Cara snaps, and suddenly she is being pulled, down the stairs and into an old cellar. Denna is already there, moving around bags of grain and kegs of liquor, toward the stairs that obviously lead to an exit. 

“Through here,” Denna snaps, and pushes at the doors. The sunlight bursts through, nearly blinding Kahlan with the brightness. “The horses are tied in the stable next door. You need to hurry.” 

But Kahlan doesn’t move. “Why are you willing to help us now?” 

“It’s not YOU, I’m helping, Confessor,” Denna sneers. “And Cara cannot deliver what she’s promised if she’s dead, can she?” 

“Kahlan, let’s GO!” 

But she can’t. She jerks her head back towards the Saloon, back to the man who would regard her as a daughter. “Cara, I won’t leave him.” 

Cara whirls. Her colored eyes give no room for sympathy. “If you want to save Richard, then you have no choice.” 

Her words are final. Too final. Kahlan understands that they cannot waste time, and yet once again she remains caught, forced to choose between a friend and the woman in the Mord’Sith leather, who stares are her defiantly and juts out her palm, willing her to take it. 

Before her lies Cara and the promise to save Richard. 

Behind her is Zedd, his promised distraction. 

“Denna will explain to him,” Cara snaps, and Denna blinks in surprise. 

“Will I?” 

“Denna, not NOW. Kahlan,” Cara says, and this time it sounds like a plea. 

Instinct is what propels her, as Kahlan takes a step forward and looks into Cara’s eyes, hears her worried breath. 

The world sways, tips… and falls back into place. 

It’s then, and only then, she notes that she’s placed her fingers into Cara’s, entwined them. 

Fingers clasp tightly around her own, and Kahlan is pulled away from Zedd and into the sunlight. 

 

END CHAPTER


	6. Someone to Ride the River With

_"It ain't exactly a secret I didn't get these scars from falling over in church."_  


-

Luck is only with them until they reach the inside of the wooden shack that is meant to be Denna’s stable. 

Inside the air is so thick and pungent with the smell of animal that Kahlan nearly chokes on the stench. But she plows through, ignoring her stinging eyes and the physical urge to wretch to head for an Appaloosa mare that reminds her intensely of a horse she had been given when she was with the Sisters of the Light. She grabs a saddle blanket that waits nearby, throwing it over the animal’s back and clicking her teeth reassuringly when the horse whinnies in protest. 

Everything that she has so carefully packed before she left Armadillo is sitting behind the saddle of the mare she rode into Plainview. But there's no time to think on that now. 

This horse has only the saddle, and in her haste, she knows she fumbles the work to tighten it. 

“Hurry up,” Cara hisses, even though it’s obvious that Kahlan is hurrying. She glares, blows a strand of dark hair out of her sweaty face and reaches for the horn of the saddle to haul herself up. Just as her foot is in the stirrup, a deafening bang rings out. It's so loud and unexpected that it startles her mount significantly; the mare nearly tosses her back against the shed. 

Zedd’s pepper bombs, she realizes. The Wizard has gone to work. 

Kahlan’s heart stutters. It pounds with guilt and fear, and with that emotion, she absorbs the screams of the men who have been affected; howls of pain and blasts of shout that rise above her own heavy breathing and the horse’s excited pants. 

It distracts those who must be distracted, just as Kahlan knows it will, but what price will Zedd pay for it? 

“Dammit,” Cara hisses. Kahlan looks up. Cara is already on her horse. Her colored eyes are wild as she jerks at the reigns. “Kahlan, let’s go!” 

The anxiety in Cara’s voiceis what propels her. She scrambles, once again digging her boot into the stirrup of the animal beside her, and grabbing hold of the horn with all her might before she shouts, “Giddap!” 

Obediently, the mare lurches forward, launching Kahlan into her saddle and nearly over the horse’s head as they rush for the open. It’s a battle to stay astride the horse but she succeeds, finding her position as she clamps with her thighs. 

Hooves dig in dirt, clomping them out of the shed and into the chaos of the unfriendly town of Plainview. Her teeth chatter with the force of the gallop, but her eyes remain fixed on Cara. She wraps her fingers through the rough leather of the straps that match the bridle and feels as if they are setting pace with the beats of her heart. 

In their haste, they fly. 

Cara’s bowler hat whips off her head but she pays no attention as she veers them out onto the main road. A man turns the corner, comes at them quickly. It's not quick enough. Cara nearly tramples him for his trouble, just as the pistol he holds goes upright. He falls back with a harsh, unforgiving thud but the shot goes off anyway. It’s wild and loud, startling Kahlan’s already skittish horse. 

There’s no room for mistakes; no time for tumbles. Though her muscles already ache with her stressed stiffness, Kahlan arches with her hips, digs into the horse’s side with the heel of her boot and forces the mare’s momentum forward. It’s enough to even her stride with Cara, match her pace as they head down the uneven road that will lead them quickly out of town. 

Of course they catch attention. They’re fleeing without finesse, and even in the wake of a Zedd-induced chaos, Cara’s leathers are hard to miss. Shots blast off behind them, loud and menacing. Kahlan thanks any spirit that will hear her that it is drunkards and miners who are doing the aiming, because though the shots are many they are also wild. 

And so they ride at a furious pace. Cara does not look back and so Kahlan does not either. She keeps her eyes on the uneven road, but does not miss as beside her, Cara lifts off her haunches and points her pistol behind them, giving as good as she is receiving. 

The blasts are disorienting, making her ears ring. Gunpowder spits off of Cara’s barrel, digging into Kahlan’s cheek like a hot kiss. Kahlan winces but doesn’t slow. 

It’s only when Cara suddenly grunts, inhaling suddenly with a husky whine that Kahlan realizes that something is wrong. 

She whirls, registers the obvious pain on the Mord’Sith’sface; sees the blood seeping through the fabric at Cara’s shoulder. 

"Cara!" 

“Keep going!” Cara yells. She doesn’t bother with any more shots. Instead, the other woman swivels in her seat, blonde hair whipping about her face as she focuses on the open road ahead of them. 

She is a wounded devil leading her into hell, and Kahlan has no choice but to swallow hard as the dust kicks in her face, following her into the wilderness of Hades. 

\-- 

Drunkards and miners prove to be no match for a Mord’Sithwhore and a Mother Confessor, even if the Mord’Sith is wounded and the Mother Confessor is burdened with guilt. 

Though the gunshots fade as they leave the town behind them, there is no stopping or slowing their pace. 

Without conversation, the pair rides south and they ride hard. The day gets hotter blasting blazing rays of sunshine on them that assault them both. Kahlan’s skin goes pink, but Cara, with no hat to protect her face, begins to look near crimson. 

Their horses do not escape unscathed. Kahlan’s mare pants underneath her and her spotted coat glistens with exertion. She’s an obedient animal but it’s clear that she’s tiring. 

As they go south, they veer off the wide dirt roads and head into open desert. Tumbleweeds and Cactus are their only friends now. Brush and nettles their only greeters. 

The desolate desert taunts Kahlan with its nakedness. 

But beyond them is the River. And with the river comes Mexico. In Mexico is retribution in the form of Richard Cypher. 

With every step forward, she is that much closer to fulfilling her promise to save Richard from the terrible fate Darken Rahl has decreed. 

But at what cost?

Zedd, a man who is just as much family to her as Richard, has been left behind in a flurry of chaos and smoke and uncertainty. She offered him no goodbyes. No thanks or appreciation for all he has done. Her payment for his kindness has been abandonment. 

Kahlan has told herself more than once that as the last of her kind, she is used to this loneliness. The Sisters of the Light, the massacre from which she was rescued, has created more scars in her soul than she would ever admit to. 

Now, the adrenaline fades and Kahlan realizes that she is once again alone. 

Except of course, for a mute stranger.A villain. A former Mord’Sith who still wears those leather chaps, as if she has no idea how to even begin to exist without them. 

Exhaustion takes hold as the horses slow from a gallop to a trot, then from a trot to a walk. 

At the slower pace, Kahlan turns to study the other woman. Of course there is no ability to read her, and Kahlan discovers uncomfortably that she is getting used to that. But she worries. She watches the way Cara shifts uncomfortably on the horse as they ride. She sees the way the blood has seeped and scabbed over on Cara’s shoulder. Kahlan can only pray that the bullet that hit the other woman is not still lodged in her body. 

Still, there HAS been blood loss, and Cara has been riding for at least three hours without treatment, under a punishing sun and the barest sips of water. 

Cara bears the pain without comment or complaint. 

But surely, she must feel it. 

“We should stop,” Kahlan finds herself saying. The silence broken, Cara’s eyes whirl to catch her own, as if she's only just now noticed that Kahlan is still with her. The expression on her face is flushed and annoyed. Kahlan finds herself swallowing her own inappropriate mirth when she realizes she's getting used to it. “We need to clean your shoulder, Cara.” 

“It’s just a graze.” 

Cara continues to ride. 

She considers hers options, as it appears that the Mord’Sith, it appears, are martyrs to the point of stupidity. 

Again, Kahlan is not surprised. “And if it gets infected?” 

“I’ve had worse.” 

Kahlan does not doubt her. After a moment, she employs a different tactic. “The horses need rest,” she ventures, choosing to use the animals as her excuse. 

Cara, stubborn as a mule, only ventures a glance down at her own steed. "Denna has taken care of these mounts. They can go a bit longer." 

It's infuriating, and yet she’s not quite willing to judge her for it. Their meeting with Denna has left a sour taste in her mouth, but it also leaves a glimmer of understanding. 

As firm as the Sisters of the Light could be, they were ruthless only when kindness was not an option. 

Mord'Sith, it appears, have no such code. 

Kahlan cannot imagine what life was like for Cara Mason. 

"Cara, I'm tired too," she finally sighs, a last resort. "We need to eat something." 

A rabbit scuttles across their path. Cara matter-of-factly pulls her Colt out and aims with her injured arm. 

She shoots. The horses jump only slightly. Kahlan follows the path of the shot and then glances at the other woman. 

Cara’s eyes meet her own, defiant and proud. 

Kahlan decides to hold her tongue. 

At the very least there will be rabbit for dinner tonight. 

\--

Somehow, despite her stubborn silence, Cara has heard her. The trail they find leads them toward the canyons. At the base of them lies the turbulent San Luis River. 

There are wolves here, evident by the tracks and the droppings they come across. Kahlan keeps her hand on her Colt revolver as they pick through the thorny brush and discover a crevice that leads them down to the sandy bank of the river. 

The quiet, serene water that seemed to welcome them so prettily just this morning has transformed now into a massive, teeming torrent of dangerous liquid. Cold, black water rushes past them with a current that can be dangerous if they’re not careful. 

Men and horses larger and stronger than them both have been swept away by the river. Still, it is cold, clean water and presents a chance to rest. Kahlan welcomes the break from the tedium of the journey. As she dismounts, she is so exhausted she discovers she can do little more than keep herself upright. Her legs tremble. Her mouth feels dry and parched. She tastes the grime of the hard ride, dust lodged in her gumsthat has turned into foul tastng mud. Her skin burns from its exposure to the sun. She feels faint and dehydrated and uses the horse for support as she leads the tired mare to the water. 

The horse drinks gratefully. That is what Kahlan focuses on, taking care that her animal does not drink too much too quickly. She rubs at the mane, tangling fingers into sweaty, course hair, combing in reassuring thanks for her hard work. 

When she allows herself to finally tend to her own needs, the water is ice cold and speeds into her lungs like she's swallowed a shard of ice. It's painful and sweet and it revives her with just enough strength to lift her head and finally allow herself to look beyond the river and to the other side. 

Mexico. 

From this distance, it looks unassuming and peaceful. Mountains and sparse vegetation lines the canvas, creating the illusion of a gorgeous oil painting of a landscape. Sun blazes on cactus at such a distance she can barely make them out. 

From where she stands, Mexico looks no different than New Austin. 

She knows that is not the truth. New Austin may be wild, but Mexico is a land plagued with revolution, struggling to break free from the dictator rule of a general and his army. It is filled with chaos and darkness. Finding Richard there will be as difficult as looking for a needle in a haystack and twice as dangerous. 

"We'll cross tonight when it gets dark," she hears, a whisper of breath that flits across her shoulder. Startled, Kahlan rubs at the sudden goosebumps that have wrinkled on her arm as Cara, now at her side, stares across the bank. Cara does not seem to notice their proximity. 

“Cara.” 

“Yes.” 

“What did Denna tell you?” 

Cara glances at her and after a moment, looks away. “It doesn’t matter," she replies, fingers idle in the shallow water that laps against the bank. “When it comes time for you to know, you’ll know it.” 

“And what’s wrong with knowing it right now?” she asks, and her voice rises. It sounds petulant, but Kahlan hates being treated with kid gloves. It has happened too often, by well-meaning men who never knew better and experienced much less. 

“Because I don’t trust what Denna has told me,” Cara snaps back, blond hair whipping as she catches her with a hard stare. “They’re mere crumbs of information. I’m hoping they’ll prove useful, but there will be no plans based on it until I trust she will not lead us into a trap.” 

As much as she hates to admit it, Cara has a point. Though Denna helped them escape from the posse in Plainview, though she even gave them her horses, it's hard to shake Denna’s cold, calculating smile. The possessive intent in her voice and her actions. The expression on her face as she laid eyes on Cara Mason. 

She remembers now, as they sit quietly on a bank, what it was she walked in just before they made their escape. 

The tightness in her chest returns. “You don’t like her.” 

“Mord’Sith as a whole are not likable people,” Cara answers flatly. “In case you haven’t noticed.” 

She remembers Cara’s unbuttoned vest. The drink in her hand. She remembers Denna’s posture, fluid and relaxed on that bed. 

It’s infuriating, to remember so much of it. To be consumed with so many... feelings on the matter at all. 

Kahlan is not usually led by her own emotion. Years of loss and survival have taught her to rationalize; to be careful. 

Cara Mason and her impulsive nature have infected her. 

It seems that Denna has as well, because just as Denna wanted to prove to Kahlan that in some unnatural way Cara still belonged to her and to the Mord’Sith, Kahlan finds herself battling the very same urge. 

Because Cara Mason is here, whether by debt or trust, she is here, beside her. They stand together on the border of New Austin, and there is so much unfamiliarity about every part of it, but for some reason, what is familiar is Cara. 

Cara’s shoulder brushes hers at just this moment, and Kahlan bites her lower lip in response. Her new friend (if that’s what she is) is unaware of her strange visions and the lewd direction of her thoughts. 

Yet if the interaction with Denna is any indication, Cara is no stranger to physical attraction between women. 

These thoughts will drive her mad. 

“How are we crossing?” 

“The bridge.” Cara squats, lowering herself to the ground. The bruises on her face jut out like war paint, highlighting angled cheek bones and piercing blue eyes. “We’re crossing on the tracks.” 

The tracks. Built as a bridge between Mexico and New Austin, this is the only bridge within a manageable distance that crosses the river. The tracks are in a thick, harsh part of New Austin. They are generally used mostly by the army and traders and of course, black market peddlers. 

Kahlan nods. Though it is not their only option to crossing this wide river, any other way requires convincing a person to ferry them across. It will not do to make themselves or their intentions known. Their visit to Plainview spelled that out quite clearly. 

At night, everyone in the world sleeps except the predators that hunt and the prey that scurries. There are fewer prying eyes who will look at Cara's leather chaps and see dollar signs. 

Theyare being hunted, and on this bank there is also a bounty and a bullet wound in her companion's shoulder. 

"Wouldn't it be better to cross sooner, rather than waiting?" From this distance, Cara's arched brown looks almost amused at Kahlan’s own stupidity. Kahlan’s lips press together, and prays for patience. "Cara, you're hurt.” She nods to the wound on Cara’s shoulder. “The sooner we leave New Austin the better." 

"And what kind of fairy land do you think Mexico is that I would be treated any better?" 

“I harbor no delusions.”

And she doesn’t. She has lived her entire life as an outsider. As a woman and a perceived half-breed. Mexico will be no different. 

Her companion will not fair any better. Cara, with her dirty blonde hair and bottomless blue eyes, will be seen by the Mexicans as a Gringa, and though she is an intimidating woman and can handle a horse and a gun better than most men Kahlan knows, she is still a woman and an American. 

The true challenge in this journey is still to come and already, they have lost Zedd. 

Perhaps it is the lack of space between them, the way Cara shifts against her, light as a breeze, that couples with Kahlan's exhaustion and works to break down her reality, dim the repeated warnings in her head that have so often reminded her that the Cara she somehow remembers is not the Cara that exists. 

Kahlan turns her head and watches unabashedly as Cara does her best to splash cold water against her shoulder, taking care not to soak herself with frigid water. 

Her movements are awkward... jerky, and with very good reason. Just two days ago, Cara Mason was beaten and left for dead. She may have as many lives as an unlucky cat, but she also has the limitations of a human being who has not slept nor had a good meal in more than a day.

Led by instinct, Kahlan bites down a sigh and reaches for Cara’s hands, stilling her movements. As her hands clasp around Cara’s wrist, she feels a steady heartbeat. It pumps, nearly pounds, underneath Kahlan’s touch. 

"What are you doing?" 

Panicked eyes study the contact, like a frightened animal being petted against it’s will. Kahlan does not heed her sensitivities. 

"I'm tending to your shoulder." Kahlan’s grip is firm. With strong hands she wraps around Cara, pulling them both and moving them away from the water and up the bank. 

She keeps her eyes on Cara’s wound. 

"Are you a nursemaid now, Confessor?" 

The tone is tight enough to make Kahlan smile. She’s grateful. Cara’s insecurity at her close proximity lightens her soul just to enough to bring back some of her old humor. “I have more talents that you would even begin to guess, MordSith.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Cara’s lips quirk, appreciating the cockiness. Apparently, it is the key to obedience, because Cara stands still and allows her to touch. 

“I look forward to seeing those talents, Confessor.” 

That voice. The way it lowers in register, rushes through her with such intensity that it sets her heart pounding and makes her palms nearly slip off of Cara. 

Cara’s stare burns at her, and Kahlan’s so, so muddled by it. 

It’s terrifying, and yet Kahlan keeps touching Cara. She cannot look at her, she absolutely cannot look into those eyes that are so obviously staring at her, so she focuses on her task as Cara waits as if she’s a child. Kahlan’s fingers fumble with the buttons of Cara’s vest. She accidently brushes a digit against a full breast and clamps down the way her body reacts to it. 

It’s madness, to feel this way. To REACT this way.

She is driven by lust and the need to nurture and underneath her hands is Cara’s skin, bruised and beaten and remarkably smooth despite the abuse. 

The white shirt underneath the vest clings to the wound, stained red at the shoulder. Clotted blood acts like a paste, and Cara’s breath goes unsteady when Kahlan peels it away. 

As for the wound itself...

Kahlan sucks in a breath at the state of it. 

"How have you been riding like this?" she asks, horrified at the bruised, jagged flesh. 

"It's only a flesh wound," Cara tells her, as Cara would, but her voice, unsteady with pain, betrays her. Kahlan’s fingers prod against the abused flesh, testing the edges, looking for signs of infection. It’s inflamed and the wound is large enough to worry her. 

Her head lifts. "We'll have to cauterize the wound to prevent infection." 

The water has cleaned it, but it’s also reopened the wound. Fresh blood, red and vibrant, now seeps from Cara’s tanned, marred shoulder with the smooth skin and scarred flesh, and stains Kahlan’s fingers. Any more hard riding and Cara will lose too much blood. The infection will grow. 

“It’s going to hurt,” Kahlan warns her, if only to fill the silence. 

And though she is beginning to know this woman, understand those quirks, Kahlan discovers that Cara surprises her. The very idea seems to almost cheer her up. Full lips turn into a sneer that could also be a smile, and blue eyes glitter at her. "Are you afraid of pain, Confessor?" she asks, chin rising. She sounds so affronted at the thought that Kahlan can’t help but lift her chin right back. 

"The last I remember pain hurts," she remarks dryly. "Most sane men would seek to avoid it." 

Of course, not Cara.The small Mord'Sith huffs like an annoyed stallion. "Pain reminds you that you're alive." 

They are alive. 

Cara, with her cat-lives, has survived an almost certain hanging, a near lynching, a beating that should have killed her. 

She lives because she is resilient and she lives because of Kahlan. 

There is a long, long journey ahead and the odds are stacked against them. 

But for now, on this bank, they are alive. The soreness in Kahlan’s body, the bruises on Cara’s face, are trophies and reminders. 

Kahlan is overwhelmed. She stares at Cara, sees the way her eyes burn with her passion. 

Cara and her devilish charm enchants her. Her fingers lift – she traces the line of Cara’s jaw, stopping at a dark bruise that feels like a kiss against the skin. “If that is the case, then I have never met anyone who is as alive as you are, Cara Mason,” she whispers. 

She cannot read this woman. She cannot stare into her soul, manipulate her like Kahlan can with so many. 

It is her that feels bewitched, as her touch lingers, forward and bold and nothing like Kahlan has ever been. 

Cara moves so slightly. Just enough to press closer, push into Kahlan’s lingering touch. Her eyes sparkle… they burn. 

A coyote howls in the distance. One of the mares whines nervously in response. 

Kahlan’s finger drops. She discovers her proximity, too close to Cara, and with a dizzy breath, steps back from the other woman. 

She feels as intoxicated as the town drunk. It frightens her. Kahlan whirls, moves with unsteady steps to the uncertain horse. 

“I know now why is it they call you a witch,” she hears, so breathless that Kahlan breaks her resolve and looks. 

Cara has turned away from her. Her focus is on her horse, where it should be. 

Kahlan swallows her disappointment and follows her example. 

After all, there is a fire to be built. 

\-- 

It's dangerous to camp near the river. The river invites strangers and predators. 

Though they are sore and tired, Car and Kahlan walk the horses away from the back, through the trail that leads them out of the canyon to go deeper into the brush. There, Kahlan finds an opening that leads to a flat plateau. 

It is safe enough. Kahlan builds her fire. It's a gamble and a dangerous one. With a fire comes smoke. 

But Cara’s shoulder is on its way to infection, and she is weak with blood loss and lack of food. 

They stand no chance of rescuing Richard if they are both starved and injured. There is no choice. 

Once again, Kahlan wishes for her pack of rations and Zedd’s matchbox. She makes do instead with flint that she carries in her pocket, scavenging tinder from dead stems that she finds. The flame that she nurses takes it’s time growing in strength. 

Through it all, Cara is remarkably quiet. Her energy is waning, that much is clear. But even so, there are no sharp remarks, no comments of impatience. Cara’s wild spirit seems to have settled; it strikes Kahlan, reminds her of a wild dog she once adopted when she was a teenager, who was feral for days until he warily trusted her enough to sit and watch, lick his wounds in full view of her. 

The old dog became her loyal companion for a very, very long time. 

Kahlan both appreciates and worries at Cara’s distance. There is no one now but the two of them, and though her senses are confused, she understands that what holds them together now is the trust they have managed to forge. It’s tenuous and new, but it exists. 

So she takes comfort that though Cara has been rendered mute, she does not hide. She watches the flame grow, until the fire is snapping and the fading sun moves further toward the horizon. The rabbit sits on a spit that Cara herself whittled, roasting and filling their small camp with the smell of roasted meat. 

Kahlan removes the down she collected from a felled bird. Cara watches as Kahlan carefully cleans it, and stares even more intensely still as she plucks a flowering Yarrow. 

“Are you picking flowers for me, Confessor?” 

Kahlan blinks, and discovers herself fighting her smile as she says simply, “This will slow any more bleeding.” 

Cara nods quietly. 

“Come on,” she says, and Cara obeys, rising to her haunches and scooting closer to fire. 

Kahlan carries the secrets of her people within her. She remembers them still, and this is not the first time she has used their techniques to burn an infection out of a wound. 

But it has never felt like this. Kahlan has never felt so… tentative. She has never felt quite so careful. 

There is nothing to do but what must be done, and so Kahlan takes a breath and then settles herself astride Cara’s thighs, ignoring the surprised gasp that spills from Cara’s lips, the way Cara’s hands clasp onto her waist. 

“Hold still,” she instructs, and once again pushes the fabric away from the wound, baring Cara’s shoulder. “This is going to hurt,” she reminds her. Cara rolls her eyes in response. 

Kahlan considers that permission enough. She lights the stem of the plant on fire, and after a moment, places the burning stem against the wound. 

The smell of human flesh burning is an unpleasant one. Kahlan’s nose wrinkles against the stench. She feels Cara twitch underneath her. Cara’s hands tighten in reflex, clamping against her waist. The other woman breathes harshly, teeth grinding as the air pushes out of her nose. Her features contort in a painful grimace, but Cara does not cry out. 

“Almost done,” Kahlan whispers, and then pulls the stem away, immediately packing the down against the wound. 

Cara’s fingers twitch, pressing into her. Kahlan’s legs tighten, keeping the other woman in place. “Let me borrow this,” she breathes, deliberate as she takes hold of Cara’s hand and pressing it to her own shoulder, keeping the down in place. 

She lifts off just enough to grab hold of her makeshift bandage, torn from the lapel of her own shirt, and wraps it tight against Cara's shoulder. 

She does not miss how Cara's palms return to her waist, pressing in without hesitation. 

After a moment Cara breathes again, steadier than before. 

“Done,” Kahlan whispers, and inspects her handy work. She has been careful. The down will keep it clean. The bandage will keep the down in place. It is only a flesh wound and it will heal well. Whatever scars that remain will be small. 

Kahlan’s eyes wander to a long, jagged line that hits Cara’s collar bone and travels down into her cleavage. It reminds her of a distorted lightning bolt. 

Obviously, others have not been quite so generous with their care. 

“Thank you,” she hears. Cara’s voice is weak and her eyes shine with unshed tears. She is stoic and weak from the ordeal. Kahlan is surprised when she laughs quietly. 

“What is it?” she asks. 

“If the Wizard could see you now,” she whispers, blue eyes opening to share their mirth. “Straddling me as if I was one of your horses, playing nursemaid to a Mord’Sith.”

Kahlan flushes at the reminder. She lifts, pushing at Cara’s good shoulder as lifts off the other woman. “I imagine not even I could stop him from shooting you with one of his Pepper Bombs,” she admits good-naturedly. “The wound will heal,” she adds in the quiet the follows. 

She watches the fire, as the flames pop and sparkle, throw heat on her skin that begins to feel good as the sun continues its descent and it grows chillier. 

“Those were Indian Methods,” Cara says suddenly. 

Kahlan’s lips quirk as she nods. “Yes,” she whispers, and her heart aches. “My tribe taught me more than my witch Confessor technique. They also taught me how to heal.” 

Beside her, Cara absorbs that. Kahlan knows she is thinking, processing, and so she lets her. 

She does not want to be only a Mother Confessor to this woman. 

“But you’re not an Indian,” Cara reasons, and Kahlan’s mouth goes dry. “It’s true then, what they say? You’re a half-breed?” 

It’s an assumption, but a correct one. “Family is not defined by blood,” Kahlan whispers quietly. “The Sisters of the Light do not accept men into their tribe. My mother was a half breed. She chose my father to father a child for her. He was a white man.” 

She remembers her father, and sometimes wishes she didn’t. 

Cara stays quiet. Kahlan knows Cara is looking at her. For once, it does not frazzles her. The memories come back in powerful, vibrant colors. “She fell ill when I was a child, and did not recover. I was raised by the Old Mother.” 

“And yet when you found me, you told Zedd he and Richard were your family.” 

Yes. A lump forms in Kahlan’s throat. It’s painful to swallow. 

“Zedd knew and respected The Old Mother. He taught me English, educated me. Then the Union wanted our land. Settlers demanded it. They needed land for their cattle. They needed animals to hunt. And a tribe of women ? They claimed we were witches.” 

It’s a harsh story, and it hurts to tell it. The ache in Kahlan’s heart burns, made stronger by her anger as she remembers these events. Her loss. “When they came, the tribe was scattered. It was a massacre. The Old Mother was killed. I was saved because of my face. My white face,” she murmurs, and shakes her head at the ridiculousness of it. “Zedd convinced them I was a prisoner of the tribe. And he and Richard took me in. They became my family.” The tears on her face surprises her. She sniffs, wipes at them furiously. Cara does not say a word. “This is more than mere devotion to a man, Cara,” she says, conviction coating her words. “I will give my life for my family, because they have given their lives for me.” 

She is lost in her emotion. It freezes her heart. Cara moves beside her, leaning forward to turn the rabbit on the spit, before settling back into her place beside Kahlan. 

After a moment, Kahlan hears, “I’ll ride the river with you, Kahlan.” 

A tear betrays her and drifts down her cheek. “Why?” she asks but does not look. 

Cara never answers her, but Kahlan suddenly understands. 

Whatever family Cara had, she has already lost it. 

\--

_It’s been a long day. Kahlan, exhausted from their day of travel, does not have the patience for Cara’s behavior._

_Richard would understand. Of course he would. He understands Cara in a way Kahlan cannot, and Kahlan knows herself well enough to admit she is jealous over it._

_Today she is only frustrated._

_Cara usually knows better. Cara is BETTER than this._

_With a flustered inhalation, Kahlan glances down at the curious leather complexity that is the Mord'Sith's chosen apparel. Quietly, she reaches for the buckle at Cara's hip._

_Fingers suddenly wrap around hers, gripping hard._

_"Don't."_

_Flushed features smack of inebriation, but Cara's tone carries with it not only sincerity but a hint of warning._

_Kahlan has become well acquainted with the intonation. It is reserved for enemies of Richard, and usually such a warning is followed by the lethal jab of an agiel._

_To hear it now, directed at her, with Cara's fingers clutching hers in a drunken but crushing grip, to see dark eyes trained on her with the predatory glare that remind her, always, of a lounging panther, give Kahlan pause._

_She sucks in a breath and resettles herself against Cara's prone form, deliberately turning her grip until her fingers are now tangled with Cara's bare fingers._

_"You need to sleep off the drink. I'm just trying to help you get more comfortable."_

_Dark eyes dart, from their joined hands to Kahlan's face. When Kahlan's brow rises in challenge, Cara snorts, immediately reminding Kahlan of a stomping, agitated horse in the midst of being broken._

_The comparison brings with it a small smile. "Cara, please."_

_The word tumbles off her lips and into the air unexpectedly. Cara stiffens underneath her, and Kahlan wishes again for Richard, who handles Cara in a way she has never quite mastered._

_She keeps her resolve, however, and is finally rewarded when the Mord'Sith suddenly lets go, hands falling to her sides, splaying out as if she is offering herself to her._

_With a shaky smile, Kahlan goes to work on the buckle, but finds her fingers clumsy, her grip awkward._

_She forces down her harsh swallow and yanks._

_"Had you not scared off the bar wench, I would have already been plenty comfortable."_

_Kahlan's cheeks burn with the image that has been presented to her after nearly a day of searching for Cara: a common wench straddling the Mord'Sith's lap, pouring liquor into Cara's mouth and loudly whispering her ardent wish to 'please the Seeker's protector'._

_"And they proclaim the Mother Confessor is both fair and tolerant."_

_Cara's words are slurred with the effects of inebriation, but her eyes dance at her, as if to tease her._

_Kahlan's irritation swells. "I won't have anyone taking advantage of you. Not in this state."_

_"And if I wanted her to?"_

_Cara's mouth pulled into a smirk. Kahlan felt a cold flush sink into her._

_"Then you are a fool," she snaps. In truth, it was she who feels foolish. She acted in the heat of the moment, emotions fresh from both losing Cara on this ill-fated quest, and finding her again in the arms of a common bar wench, drunk and demanding and everything a warrior entrusted with the protection of the Seeker should not have been. "Only an idiot would allow themselves to drink this way, put themselves at the mercy of others. I would have expected better of you."_

_"The Mother Confessor expect such things of a Mord'Sith?" Cara's tone is openly mocking._

_"Stop it," she hisses, eyes flashing with hurt. "Do not say things you will regret in this intoxication."_

_The passion rises within her, and she feels the ferocity taint her movements, fingers seeking out the laces at Cara's waist. Once again, hands descend upon her, grabbing hold of her biceps and tugging. Off balance, Kahlan falls forward heavily, breath pushed out of her as she is now sprawled against Cara's body, Cara's ale-soaked breath puffing against her cheek._

_Cara shifts suddenly, and she is now trapped underneath the shorter woman, caught between a mattress of hay and a woman whose eyes glitter with dangerous intent._

_"I regret nothing," she hears, before lips pressed heatedly against her mouth-_

“-Kahlan!”

Kahlan’s eyes open. For a moment, she is unseeing, unable to comprehend the sudden shift of circumstance. The mattress of hay is now hard-packed earth. The leathers she wore are now fabric pants and a paisley shirt. The Mord’Sith that trapped her is no longer wrapped in leathers but wears a vest over a stained white shirt. 

This is a different era. A different time. There are no agiels. There are no Wizards. There is no magic and there are no Seekers. 

But there _is_ Cara. Cara with the same face, with those same blue eyes, those same full laps, who kneels against her and stares at her with an unabashed look of concern. 

Kahlan sucks in a panicked breath, trying desperately to understand. Her head swims with uncertainty, and Cara's palm strokes her shoulder, heated against her skin. 

“You were dreaming,” Cara tells her, in that same rough voice, with a hint of twang because this is New Austin. 

But she is Cara Mason, and she is Kahlan Amnell and they are family. 

They belong to each other. 

Lost in time, heart pounding with sudden emotion and need, Kahlan cannot help her impulse. She does not fight it. 

Her head lifts without hesitation, and opens her lips against Cara's. 

With a passionate, hungry kiss, Kahlan comes home. 

END CHAPTER


End file.
